emerging, a book I have made, The words of my book nothing, the drift of it everything, A book separate, not link’d with the rest nor felt by the intellect, But you ye untold latencies will thrill to every page.
Poets to Come
Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come! Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for, But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known, Arouse! for you must justify me.
I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future, I but advance a moment only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.
I am a man who, sauntering along without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you and then averts his face, Leaving it to you to prove and define it, Expecting the main things from you.
To You
Stranger, if you passing meet me and desire to speak to me, why should you not speak to me? And why should I not speak to you?
Thou Reader
Thou reader throbbest life and pride and love the same as I, Therefore for thee the following chants.