They are comprised in you just as much as in themselves
—perhaps more than in themselves,
They are not comprised in one season or succession,
but many successions,
They have come slowly up out of the earth and me,
and are to come slowly up out of you.
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14.
Not heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of the ripe
summer, bears lightly along white down-balls of
myriads of seeds, wafted, sailing gracefully, to
drop where they may.
Not these—O none of these, more than the flames
of me, consuming, burning for his love whom I
love!
O none, more than I, hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never
give up? O I the same;
O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high
rain-emitting clouds, are borne through the open
air,
Any more than my Soul is borne through the open
air.
Wafted in all directions, O love, for friendship, for
you.
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