Walt Whitman

LEAVES OF GRASS
(1891-92 issue)
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Scented Herbage of My Breast

 Scented herbage of my breast,
 Leaves from you I glean, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
 Tomb-leaves, body-leaves growing up above me above death,
 Perennial roots, tall leaves, O the winter shall not freeze you
 delicate leaves,
 Every year shall you bloom again, out from where you retired you
 shall emerge again;
 O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you or inhale
 your faint odor, but I believe a few will;
 O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell in
 your own way of the heart that is under you,
 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,
 Yet you are beautiful to me you faint tinged roots, you make me
 think of death,
 Death is beautiful from you, (what indeed is finally beautiful
 except death and love?)
 O 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 O 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 conceal'd heart there!
 Do not (...)
(......)