She, too, would sing herself
if such a song seemed not so
presumptuous, indulgent.
She leaves her blades of grass
lying under drifts of reticence.
What she knows, you may
know, but only if you ask,
and even then she may answer
by asking you to sing a little
something of yourself.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Walt was pretty full of himself. Impressed with his own breath. He presumes that if I will only hang with him I'll possess the origin of all poems. He is really asking to listen to my own voice. He just didn't know how to stretch the gender of his pronuns beyond 'any man hearty and clean' like you do.