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.
S.
Scented herbage of my breast.
Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
Tomb-leaves, body-leaves, growing up above me, above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves — the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves.
Every year shall you l^loom again — Out from where you retired, you shall emerge again ;
O I do not know whether many, passing by, will dis- cover you, or inhale your faint odor — but I believe a few will ;
O slender leaves ! blossoms of my blood ! I permit you to tell, in your own way, of the heart that is under you,
O burning and throbbing — surely all will one day be accomplished ;
O I do not know what you mean, there underneath yourselves — you are not happiness.
You are often more bitter than I can bear — you burn and sting me.