In Paths Untrodden, In The Growth By Margins Of Pond-Waters, Escaped From The Life That Exhibits Itself, From All The Standards Hitherto Publish'D - From The Pleasures, Profits, Eruditions, Conformities, Which Too Long I Was Offering To Feed My Soul; Clear To Me, Now, Standards Not Yet Publish'D - Clear To Me That My Soul, That The Soul Of The Man I Speak For, Feeds, Rejoices Most In Comrades; Here, By Myself, Away From The Clank Of The World, Tallying And Talk'D To Here By Tongues Aromatic, No Longer Abash'D - 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 Of My Nights And Days, To Celebrate The Need Of Comrades.