 | Leaves of grass (1872) |  |
4
14
My songs cease—I abandon them;From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally, solely to you.
15
Camerado! This is no book;Who touches this, touches a man;
(Is it night? Are we here alone?)
It is I you hold, and who holds you;
I spring from the pages into your arms—decease calls me forth.
16
O how your fingers drowse me!Your breath falls around me like dew—your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears;
I feel immerged from head to foot;
Delicious—enough.
384
17
Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summ'd-up past!
| Leaves of grass (1872) | |