IN paths untrodden,

In the growth by margins of pond-waters,

Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,

From all the standards hitherto published — from the pleasures, profits, conformities.

Which too long I was offering to feed to my Soul ;

Clear to me now, standards not yet published — clear to me that my Soul,

That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices only in comrades ;

Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world,

Tallying and talked to here by tongues aromatic,

No longer abashed — 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,

Resolved to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,

Projecting them along that substantial life,

Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love,