In Paths Untrodden

IN paths untrodden, In the growth by margins of pond-waters, Escaped from the life that exhibits itself, From all the standards hitherto publish’d—from the pleasures, profits, eruditions, conformities, Which too long I was offering to feed my soul; Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish’d—clear to me that my Soul, That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in comrades; Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world, Tallying and talk’d to here by tongues aromatic, No longer abash’d—for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere, Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest, Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment, Projecting them along that substantial life, Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love, Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year, I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men, To tell the secret of my nights and days, To celebrate the need of comrades.