The words of the true poems give you more than poems, They give you, to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war, peace, behaviour, histories, essays, romances, and everything else, They balance ranks, colours, races, creeds, and the sexes, They do not seek beauty--they are sought, For ever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing, fain, love-sick. They prepare for death--yet are they not the finish, but rather the outset, They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full; Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars, to learn one of the meanings, To launch off with absolute faith--to sweep through the ceaseless rings, and never be quiet again. _TO A HISTORIAN._ You who celebrate bygones: Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races--the life that has exhibited itself; Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates, rulers, and priests. I, habitué of the Alleghanies, treating man as he is in himself, in his own rights, Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself, the great pride of man in himself; Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be; I project the history of the future. _FIT AUDIENCE._ 1. Whoever you are, holding me now in hand, Without one thing, all will be useless: I give you fair warning, before you attempt me further, I am not what you supposed, but far different. 2. Who is he that would become my follower? Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections? The way is suspicious--the result uncertain, perhaps destructive; You would have to give up all else--I alone would expect to be your God, sole and exclusive; Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting, The whole past theory of your life, and all conformity to the lives around you, would have to be abandoned; Therefore release me now, before troubling yourself any further--Let go your hand from my shoulders, Put me down, and depart on your way. Or else, by stealth, in some wood, for trial, Or back of a rock, in the open air, (For in any roofed room of a house I emerge not--nor in company, And in libraries I lie as one dumb, a gawk, or unborn, or dead,) But just possibly with you on a high hill--first watching lest any person, for miles around, approach unawares-- Or possibly with you sailing at sea, or on the beach of the sea, or some quiet island, Here to put your lips upon mine I permit you, With the comrade's long-dwelling kiss, or the new husband's kiss, For I am the new husband, and I am the comrade. Or, if you will, thrusting me beneath your clothing, Where I may feel the throbs of your heart, or rest upon your hip, Carry me when you go forth over land or sea; For thus, merely touching you, is enough--is best, And thus, touching you, would I silently sleep, and be carried eternally. 3.