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Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.8 The little one sleeps in its cradle, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies with my hand.The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.What do you think has become of the young and old men?

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it.O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

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