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 together 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 summ'd-
     up past.

Dear friend whoever you are take this kiss,
I give it especially to you, do not forget me,
I feel like one who has done work for the day to retire
     awhile,
I receive now again of my many translations, from my
     avataras ascending, while others doubtless await me,

An unknown sphere more real than I dream'd, more
     direct, darts awakening rays about me, So long!
Remember my words, I may again return,
I love you, I depart from materials,
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.

1860 1881