The rich coverlid of the grass—animals and birds—
the private untrimmed bank—the primitive apples
—the pebble-stones,
Beautiful dripping fragments—the negligent list of
one after another, as I happen to call them to me,
or think of them,
The real poems, (what we call poems being merely
pictures,)
The poems of the privacy of the night, and of men
like me,
This poem, drooping shy and unseen, that I always
carry, and that all men carry,
(Know, once for all, avowed on purpose, wherever are
men like me, are our lusty, lurking, masculine,
poems,)
Love-thoughts, love-juice, love-odor, love-yielding, love-climbers,
and the climbing sap,
Arms and hands of love—lips of love—phallic thumb
of love—breasts of love—bellies pressed and
glued together with love.
Earth of chaste love—life that is only life after
love,
The body of my love—the body of the woman I
love—the body of the man—the body of the
earth,
Soft forenoon airs that blow from the south-west,
The hairy wild-bee that murmurs and hankers up and
down—that gripes the full-grown lady-flower,
curves upon her with amorous firm legs, takes
his will of her, and holds himself tremulous and
tight upon her till he is satisfied,
The wet of woods through the early hours,
26*
