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148.Whatever goes to the tilth of me, it shall be you!
You my rich blood! Your milky stream, pale strippings
of my life.

149.Breast that presses against other breasts, it shall be
you!
My brain, it shall be your occult convolutions.

150.Root of washed sweet-flag! Timorous pond-snipe!
Nest of guarded duplicate eggs! it shall be
you!
Mixed tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall
be you!
Trickling sap of maple! Fibre of manly wheat! it
shall be you!

151.Sun so generous, it shall be you!
Vapors lighting and shading my face, it shall be
you!
You sweaty brooks and dews, it shall be you!
Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me, it
shall be you!
Broad, muscular fields! Branches of live oak! Loving
lounger in my winding paths! it shall be
you!
Hands I have taken—face I have kissed—mortal I
have ever touched! it shall be you.

152.I dote on myself—there is that lot of me, and all so
luscious,
Each moment, and whatever happens, thrills me with
joy.