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Leaves of grass. | ||
4
14 My songs cease
— I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance per- sonally, 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.
17 Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!
Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summ'd-up past!
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance per- sonally, 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.
36c
Your breath falls around me like dew — your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot,
Delicious — enough.
17 Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!
Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summ'd-up past!
Leaves of grass. | ||