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To troops out of me rising—they the tasks I have set
promulging,
To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing—
their affection me more clearly explaining,
To young men my problems offering—no dallier I—
I the muscle of their brains trying,
So I pass—a little time vocal, visible, contrary,
Afterward, a melodious echo, passionately bent for—
death making me undying,
The best of me then when no longer visible—for
toward that I have been incessantly preparing.

18.What is there more, that I lag and pause, and crouch
extended with unshut mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?

19.My songs cease—I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally.

20.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.

21.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.