TO the garden, the world, anew ascending, Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding, The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being, Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber; The revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, have brought me again, Amorous, mature — all beautiful to me — all wondrous; My limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous; Existing, I peer and penetrate still, Content with the present — content with the past, By my side, or back of me, Eve following, Or in front, and I following her just the same.
To have great poets, there must be great audiences.
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"We consider bibles and religions divine — I do not say they are not divine, I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still, It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life, Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth, than they are shed out of you."
