IN paths untrodden, <br /> In the growth by margins of pond-waters, <br /> Escaped from the life that exhibits itself, <br /> From all the standards hitherto publish'd--from the pleasures, <br /> profits, eruditions, conformities, <br /> Which too long I was offering to feed my soul; <br /> Clear to me, now, standards not yet publish'd--clear to me that my <br /> Soul, <br /> That the Soul of the man I speak for, feeds, rejoices most in <br /> comrades; <br /> Here, by myself, away from the clank of the world, <br /> Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic, <br /> No longer abash'd--for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would <br /> not dare elsewhere, 10 <br /> Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains <br /> all the rest, <br /> Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment, <br /> Projecting them along that substantial life, <br /> Bequeathing, hence, types of athletic love, <br /> Afternoon, this delicious Ninth-month, in my forty-first year, <br /> I proceed, for all who are, or have been, young men, <br /> To tell the secret of my nights and days, <br /> To celebrate the need of comrades.<br /><br />Walt Whitman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-paths-untrodden/
