What is there more, that I lag and pause and crouch extended with unshut mouth? Is there a single final farewell?

My songs cease, I abandon them, From behind the screen where I hid I advance personally solely to you.

Camerado, this is no book, Who touches this touches a man, (Is it night? are we here together alone?) It is I you hold and who holds you, I spring from the pages into your arms⁠—decease calls me forth.

O how your fingers drowse me, Your breath falls around me like dew, your pulse lulls the tympans of my ears, I feel immerged from head to foot, Delicious, enough.

Enough O deed impromptu and secret, Enough O gliding present⁠—enough O summ’d-up past.