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349. And as to you corpse, I think you are good manure,
but that does not offend me,
I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing,
I reach to the leafy lips—I reach to the polished
breasts of melons.

350. And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of
many deaths.
No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times
before.

351. I hear you whispering there, O stars of heaven,
O suns! O grass of graves! O perpetual transfers and
promotions!
If you do not say anything, how can I say anything?

352. Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest,
Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing
twilight,
Toss, sparkles of day and dusk! toss on the black
stems that decay in the muck!
Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.

353. I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night,
I perceive of the ghastly glimmer the sunbeams reflected,
And debouch to the steady and central from the
offspring great or small.

354. There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but
I know it is in me.

355. Wrenched and sweaty—calm and cool then my body
becomes,
I sleep—I sleep long.