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They descend in new forms from the tips of his
fingers,
They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath
—they fly out of the glance of his eyes.

262.Flaunt of the sunshine, I need not your bask,—lie
over!
You light surfaces only—I force surfaces and depths
also.

Earth! you seem to look for something at my hands,
Say, old Top-knot! what do you want?

263.Man or woman! I might tell how I like you, but
cannot,
And might tell what it is in me, and what it is in
you, but cannot,
And might tell that pining I have—that pulse of my
nights and days.

264.Behold! I do not give lectures or a little charity,
What I give, I give out of myself.

265.You there, impotent, loose in the knees,
Open your scarfed chops till I blow grit within you,
Spread your palms, and lift the flaps of your pockets;
I am not to be denied—I compel—I have stores
plenty and to spare,
And anything I have I bestow.

266.I do not ask who you are—that is not important to
me,
You can do nothing, and be nothing, but what I will
infold you.