IN paths untrodden,In the growth by margins of pond-waters,Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,From all the standards hitherto published—from the pleasures, profits, conformities,Which too long I was offering to feed to my SoulClear to me now, standards not yet published— clear to me that my Soul,That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices only in comrades;Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,Tallying and talked to here by tongues aromatic,No longer abashed—for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest,Resolved to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,Projecting them along that substantial life,Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,29*
[ begin page 342 ]ppp.01500.350.jpgAfternoon, this delicious Ninth Month, in my forty- first year,I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men,To tell the secret of my nights and days,To celebrate the need of comrades.