The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast -
I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman -
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
As cool as the pale wet leaves
She lay beside me in the dawn.
Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.
Though I have been in many a land,
The lateral vibrations caress me,
They leap and caress me,
They work pathetically in my favour,
They seek my financial good.
And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Rest me with Chinese colours,
For I think the glass is evil.