Walt Whitman

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 the 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.

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