Yet you are very beautiful to me, you faint-tinged

roots — you make me think of Death,

Death is beautiful from you — (what indeed is beautiful, except Death and Love ?)

I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of lovers — I think it must be for Death,

For how calm, how solemn it grows, to ascend to the atmosphere of lovers.

Death or life I am then indifferent — my Soul declines to prefer,

I am not sure but the high Soul of lovers welcomes death most ;

Indeed, Death, I think now these leaves mean precisely the same as you mean ;

Grow up taller, sweet leaves, that I may see ! Grow up out of my breast !

Spring away from the concealed heart there !

Do not fold yourselves so in your pink-tinged roots, timid leaves !

Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast !

Come, I am determined to unbare this broad breast of mine — I have long enough stifled and choked ;

Emblematic and capricious blades, I leave you — now you serve me not.

Away! I will say what I have to say, by itself,

I will escape from the sham that was proposed to me,

I will sound myself and comrades only — I will never again utter a call, only their call,

I will raise, with it, immortal reverberations through The States,

I will give an example to lovers, to take permanent shape and will through The States;