Читать книгу Complete Works - Walt Whitman - Страница 79

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Not heat flames up and consumes,

Not sea-waves hurry in and out,

Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly

along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,

Waited, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;

Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consuming,

burning for his love whom I love,

O none more than I hurrying in and out;

Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the same,

O 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 O love, for friendship, for you.