THESE I singing in spring collect for lovers,(For who but I should understand lovers and all their sorrow and joy?And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)Collecting I traverse the garden the world, but soon I pass the gates,Now along the pond-side, now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,Now by the post-and-rail fences where the old stones thrown there, pick'd from the fields, have accumulated,(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,)Far, far in the forest, or sauntering later in summer, before I think where I go,Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,Alone I had thought, yet soon a troop gathers around me,Some walk by my side and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,They the spirits of dear friends dead or alive, thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,Collecting, dispensing, singing, there I wander with them,Plucking something for tokens, tossing toward whoever is near me,Here, lilac, with a branch of pine,
[ begin page 100 ]ppp.00707.108.jpgHere, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull'd off a live-oak in Florida as it hung trailing down,Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pond- side,(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me, and returns again never to separate from me,And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades, this calamus-root shall,Interchange it youths with each other! let none render it back!)And twigs of maple and a bunch of wild orange and chestnut,And stems of currants and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar,These I compass'd around by a thick cloud of spirits,Wandering, point to or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,Indicating to each one what he shall have, giving something to each;But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,I will give of it, but only to them that love as I myself am capable of loving.