They are comprised in you just as much as in them-
selves — perhaps more than in themselves,
They are not comprised in one season or succession, but many successions,
They have come slowly up out of the earth and me, and are to come slowly up out of you.
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14.
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 — none of these, more than the flames of me, consuming, burning for his love whom I love! none, more than I, hurrying in and out;
Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? 1 the same; 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, love, for friendship, for you.