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,