The Complete Poems (Penguin Classics)

Journeyers over consecutive seasons, over the years, the curious years each emerging from that which preceded it,

Forth-steppers from the latent unrealized baby-days, Journeyers gayly with their own youth, journeyers with their bearded and well-grain’d manhood,

From all that has touch’d you I believe you have imparted to yourselves, and now would impart the same secretly tome, From the living and the dead you have peopled your impassive surface, and the spirits thereof would be evident and amicable with me.

Yet all were lacking if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Here is the test of wisdom, Wisdom is not finally tested in schools, Wisdom cannot be pass’d from one having it to another not having it, Wisdom is of the soul, is not susceptible of proof, is its own proof,

Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air and to eat and sleep with the earth.

Here is a man tallied – he realizes here what he has in him, The past, the future, majesty, love – if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.

To undergo much, tramps of days, rests of nights, To merge all in the travel they tend to, and the days and nights they tend to, Again to merge them in the start of superior journeys, (170) To see nothing anywhere but what you may reach it and pass it, To conceive no time, however distant, but what you may reach it and pass it, To look up or down n

You express me better than I can express myself, You shall be more to me than my poem.