What is there more, that I lag and pause, and crouch extended with unshut
mouth?
Is there a single final farewell?
4.
My songs cease—I abandon them,
From behind the screen where I hid, I advance personally, solely to you.
Camerado! This is no book;
Who touches this touches a man.
(Is it night? Are we here alone?)
It is I you hold, and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms—decease calls me forth.
O how your fingers drowse me!
Your breath falls around me like dew—your pulse lulls the tympans of my
ears,
I feel immerged from head to foot,
Delicious—enough.
Enough, O deed impromptu and secret!
Enough, O gliding present! Enough, O summed-up past!
5.
Dear friend, whoever you are, here, take this kiss,
I give it especially to you—Do not forget me,
I feel like one who has done his work—I progress on,—(long enough have I dallied with Life,) The unknown sphere, more real than I dreamed, more direct, awakening rays about me—So long! Remember my words—I love you—I depart from materials, I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.