I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
But damn that which spends itself with no thought of the stain, pains, dismay, feebleness, it is bequeathing.
The Originatress comes, The nest of languages, the bequeather of poems, the race of eld, Florid with blood, pensive, rapt with musings, hot with passion, Sultry with perfume, with ample and flowing garments, With sunburnt visage, with intense soul and glittering eyes, The race of Brahma comes.
My Legacy The business man the acquirer vast, After assiduous years surveying results, preparing for departure, Devises houses and lands to his children, bequeaths stocks, goods, funds for a school or hospital, Leaves money to certain companions to buy tokens, souvenirs of gems and gold.
…(for in this secluded spot I can respond as I would not dare elsewhere,) Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet contains all the rest, Resolv’d to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment, Projecting them along that substantial life, Bequeathing hence types of athletic love, Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year, I proceed for all who are or have been young men, To tell the secret my nights and days, To celebrate the need of comrades.
But I, my life surveying, closing, With nothing to show to devise from its idle years, Nor houses nor lands, nor tokens of gems or gold for my friends, Yet certain remembrances of the war for you, and after you, And little souvenirs of camps and soldiers, with my love, I bind together and bequeath in this bundle of songs.
Shakspere-Bacon’s Cipher I doubt it not—then more, far more; In each old song bequeath’d—in every noble page or text, (Different—something unreck’d before—some unsuspected author,) In every object, mountain, tree, and star—in every birth and life, As part of each—evolv’d from each—meaning, behind the ostent, A mystic cipher waits infolded.
Hence I sign this salute over the sea, And I do not deny that terrible red birth and baptism, But remember the little voice that I heard wailing, and wait with perfect trust, no matter how long, And from to-day sad and cogent I maintain the bequeath’d cause, as for all lands, And I send these words to Paris with my love, And I guess some chansonniers there will understand them, For I guess there is latent music yet in France, floods of it, O I hear already the bustle of instruments,…
Of them standing among them, one lifts to the light a west-bred face, To him the hereditary countenance bequeath’d both mother’s and father’s, His first parts substances, earth, water, animals, trees, Built of the common stock, having room for far and near, Used to dispense with other lands, incarnating this land, Attracting it body and soul to himself, hanging on its neck with incomparable love, Plunging his seminal muscle into its merits and demerits, Making its cities, beginnings,…
…and pass on, returning homeward, Moving with steady motion, swaying to and fro to the right and left, Evenly lightly rising and falling while the steps keep time; Spirit of hours I knew, all hectic red one day, but pale as death next day, Touch my mouth ere you depart, press my lips close, Leave me your pulses of rage—bequeath them to me—fill me with currents convulsive, Let them scorch and blister out of my chants when you are gone, Let them identify you to the future in these songs.
(I bequeath them to you my children, I tell them to you, for reasons, O bridegroom and bride.
…sisters’ sake, for the soul’s sake, Wanding my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the kiss of affection, For I am affection, I am the cheer-bringing God, with hope and all-enclosing charity, With indulgent words as to children, with fresh and sane words, mine only, Young and strong I pass knowing well I am destin’d myself to an early death; But my charity has no death—my wisdom dies not, neither early nor late, And my sweet love bequeath’d here and elsewhere never dies.
…dirt dropping, Myself unknowing, my commission obeying, to question it never daring, To ages and ages yet the growth of the seed leaving, To troops out of the war arising, they the tasks I have set promulging, To women certain whispers of myself bequeathing, their affection me more clearly explaining, To young men my problems offering—no dallier I—I the muscle of their brains trying, So I pass, a little time vocal, visible, contrary, Afterward a melodious echo, passionately bent for,…
…and you airs that swim above lightly impalpable, And all you essences of soil and growth, and you my rivers’ depths, And you mountain sides, and the woods where my dear children’s blood trickling redden’d, And you trees down in your roots to bequeath to all future trees, My dead absorb or South or North—my young men’s bodies absorb, and their precious precious blood, Which holding in trust for me faithfully back again give me many a year hence, In unseen essence and odor of surface and…
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It is our duty to bequeath a better world to our grandchildren.
She bequeaths her stuffed toys to Gloria’s fourteen-year-old daughter.