NOT HEAT FLAMES UP AND CONSUMES

NOT heat flames up and consumes,
Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
Not the air delicious and dry, the air of 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.

1860 1867

TRICKLE DROPS

TRICKLE drops! my blue veins leaving!
O drops of me! trickle, slow drops,
Candid from me falling, drip, bleeding drops,
From wounds made to free you whence you were prison'd,
From my face, from my forehead and lips,
From my breast, from within where I was conceal'd, press
     forth red drops, confession drops,
Stain every page, stain every song I sing, every word I say,
     bloody drops,
Let them know your scarlet heat, let them glisten,
Saturate them with yourself all ashamed and wet,
Glow upon all I have written or shall write, bleeding drops,
Let it all be seen in your light, blushing drops.

1860 1867

CITY OF ORGIES

CITY of orgies, walks and joys,
City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one
     day make you illustrious,
Not the pageants of you, not your shifting tableaus, your
     spectacles, repay me,
Not the interminable rows of your houses, nor the ships at
     the wharves,
Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows
     with goods in them,
Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the
     soiree or feast;
Not those, but as I pass O Manhattan, your frequent and
     swift flash of eyes offering me love,
Offering response to my own — these repay me,
Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.

1860 1867

BEHOLD THIS SWARTHY FACE

BEHOLD this swarthy face, these gray eyes,
This beard, the white wool unclipt upon my neck,
My brown hands and the silent manner of me without charm;

Yet comes one a Manhattanese and ever at parting kisses me
     lightly on the lips with robust love,
And I on the crossing of the street or on the ship's deck give a
     kiss in return,
We observe that salute of American comrades land and sea,
We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.

1860 1867

I SAW IN LOUISIANA A LIVE-OAK GROWING

I SAW in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves
     of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of
     myself,
But I wonder'd how it could utter joyous leaves standing
     alone there without its friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon
     it, and twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight, in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of
     manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in
     Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend a lover near,
I know very well I could not.

1860 1867

TO A STRANGER

PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look
    upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes
     to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate,
     chaste, matured,