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, picked from the fields, have accu- mulated,Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these I pass,Far, far in the forest, before I think where I get,Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,Alone I had thought—yet soon a silent troop gathers around me,Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,They, the spirits of friends, dead or alive—thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wan- der with them,Plucking something for tokens—something for these, till I hit upon a name—tossing toward whoever is near me,
[ begin page 348 ]ppp.01500.356.jpgHere! lilac, with a branch of pine,Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pulled 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, compassed 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.