The following roman-numbered "fair-copy" manuscripts from the University of Virginia's Valentine-Barrett collection have come to be known by the struck-through title "Live Oak, with Moss" rather than the alternate and remaining title "Calamus-Leaves." We provide this HTML transcription only temporarily. Eventually we will encode these pages in XML and incorporate them within our larger directory of Whitman's poetry manuscripts. Calamus-Leaves.  Live Oak, with Moss.   I.  Not the heat flames up and consumes,  Not the sea-waves hurry in and out,  Not the air, delicious and dry, the air of            the ripe summer, bears lightly along            white down-balls of myriads of seeds,            wafted, sailing gracefully, to drop            where they may,  Not these—O none of these, more than the            flames of me, consuming, burning for            his love whom I love—O none, more            than I,  hurrying in and out;  Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and            never give up?—O I, the same, to           seek my life-long lover;  O nor down-balls, nor perfumes, nor the high           rain-emitting clouds, are borne through           the open air, more than my copious            soul is borne through the open air,            wafted in all directions, for friendship,            for love.— II I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,  All alone stood it, and the moss hung down            from the branches,  Without any companion it grew there,            glistening out with joyous leaves of            dark green,  And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made            me think of myself;  But I wondered how it could utter joyous            leaves, standing alone there without its            friend, its lover- -For I knew I could            not;  And I plucked a twig with a certain number            of leaves upon it, and twined around it            a little moss, and brought it  away —            And I have placed it in sight in my            room,  It is not needed to remind me as of my            friends, (for I believe lately I think of           little else than of them,)  Yet it remains to me a curious token - it              makes me think of manly love, I write          these              pieces and name them after it ;  For all that, and though the treelive oak            glistens there in Louisiana, solitary in a            wide flat space, uttering joyous leaves            all its life, without a friend, a lover,            near - I know very well I could not.  III  When I heard at the close of the day how I            had been praised in the Capitol, still it            was not a happy night for me that            followed;  And else Nor when I caroused — Or —Nor^when my  ^favorite plans were            accomplished — it was I really happy,            was well enough — Still I was not           happy;  But the the theat^ thatday when whenI rose at           dawn from the bed of perfect health,            electric, inhaling sweet breath,  When I saw the full moon in the west grow            pale and disappear in the morning            light,  When I wandered alone over the beach, and            undressing, bathed, laughing with the            waters, and saw the sun rise,  And when I thought how my friend, my lover,          was coming, then O^ I was happy;  O tThen eEach breath tasted sweeter—and            all that day my food nourished me            more—And the beautiful day passed            well,  And the next came with equal joy—And with           the next, at evening, came my friend,  And that night, while all was still, I heard the            waters roll slowly continually up the            shores  I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and            sands, as directed to me, whispering,            to congratulate me,—For the friend I            love lay sleeping by my side,  In the stillness his face was inclined towards            me, while the moon's clear beams            shone, And his arm lay lightly over my            breast—And that night I was happy.  (on this leaf, beneath the paste-over, is an earlier version of the conclusion, with no strikethroughs) And that night O you happy waters, I heard            you beating the shores—But my heart           beat happier than you—for he I love is           returned and sleeping by my side,  And that night in the stillness his face was           inclined toward me while the moon's           clear beams shone,  And his arm lay lightly over my breast—And            that night I was happy. IV This moment as I sit alone, yearning and            pensive, it seems to me there are other           men, in other lands, yearning and            pensive.  It seems to me I can look over and behold            them, in Germany, France, Spain—Or           far away in China, ^India, or in           Russia—talking other dialects,  And it seems to me if I could know those            men better I should love them as I love           men in my own lands;  It seems to me they are as wise, beautiful,            benevolent, as any in my own lands;  O I know think we should be brethren—I            knowthink I should be happy with            them. V Long I thought that knowledge alone would            suffice me—O if I could but obtain           knowledge!  Then my lands the Land of the Prairies           engrossed me—the south savannas              engrossed me—For them I would live           —I would be their orator;  Then I met the examples of old and new            heroes—I heard the examples of            warriors, sailors, and all dauntless           persons—And it seemed to me I too           had it in me to be as dauntless as any,           and would be so;  And then to finish all, it came to me to strike           up the songs of the New World—And           then I believed my life must be spent in           singing;  But now take notice, Land of the prairies,           Land of the south savannas, Ohio's            land,  Take notice, you Kanuck woods—and you,            Lake Huron—and all that with you roll           toward Niagara—and you Niagara            also,  And you, Californian mountains—that you           all find some one else that he be your            singer of songs,  For I can be your singer of songs no            longer — I have passed ahead           I have ceased to enjoy them. I have found him who loves me, as I him in           perfect love,  With the rest I dispense—I sever from all            that I thought would suffice me, for it            does not--it is now empty and            tasteless to me,  I heed knowledge, and the grandeur of The            States, and the examples of heroes, no           more,  I am indifferent to my own songs—I am to           go with him I love, and he is to go           with me,  It is to be enough for each of us that we are           together—We never separate again. - ____________ VI What think you I have taken my pen to            record?  Not the battle-ship, perfect-model'd,            majestic, that I saw to day arrive in the           offing, under full sail,  Nor the splendors of the past day--nor the           splendors of the night that envelopes            me—Nor the glory and growth of the           great city spread around me,  But the two young men I saw to-day on the           pier, parting the parting of dear            friends.  The one whoto remainedremain hung on the           other's neck and passionately kissed            him—while the one who remainedto            depart tightly prest the one who           remained to remain in his arms. __________ VII You bards of ages hence,! when you refer to            me, mind not so much my poems,  Nor speak to me that I prophesied of The           States and led them the way of their           glories,  But come, I will inform you who I was           underneath that impassive exterior—           I will tell you what to say of me, Publish my name and hang up my picture as           that of the tenderest lover,  The friend, the lover's portrait, of whom his           friend, his lover was fondest,  Who was not proud of his songs, but of the           measureless ocean of love within           him—and freely poured it forth,  Who often walked lonesome walks thinking           of his dearest friends, his lovers,  Who pensive, away from one he loved, often           lay sleepless and dissatisfied at night, Who, dreading lest the one he loved might            after all be indifferent to him, felt the           sick feeling—O sick! sick!  Whose happiest days were those, far away           ^through fields, in woods, or on hills, he           and another, wandering hand in hand,            they twain, apart from other men. Who ever, as he sauntered the streets,            curved with his arm the manly shoulder           of his friend—while the curving arm of           his friend rested upon him also.  _________ VIII.                        IX. Hours continuing long, sore and            heavy-hearted,  Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a            lonesome and unfrequented spot,            seating myself, leaning my face in my           hands,  Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go            forth, speeding swiftly the country           roads, or through the city streets, or            pacing miles and miles, stifling             plaintive cries,  Hours discouraged, distracted, —For he, the           one I cannot content myself            without—soon I saw him content           himself without me,  Hours when I am forgotten—(O weeks and            months are passing, but I believe I am            never to forget!)  Sullen and suffering hours--(I am ashamed—           but it is useless —I am what I am;) Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men           ever have the like out of the like           feelings?  Is there even one other like me—distracted           — his friend, his lover, lost to him?  Is he too as I am now?  Does he still rise           in the morning, dejected, thinking who           is lost to him? And at night, awaking,           think who is lost?  Does he too harbor his friendship silent and           endless?  Harbor his anguish and           passion?  Does some stray reminder, or the casual           mention of a name, bring the fit back           upon him, taciturn and deprest?  Does he see himself reflected in me?  In these           hours does he see the face of his hours           reflected? _______ IX I dreamed in a dream of a city where all the           men were like brothers,  O I saw them tenderly love each other—I            often saw them, in numbers, walking            hand in hand;  I dreamed that was the city of robust            friends—Nothing was greater there           than the quality of manly love—it led           the rest,  It was seen every hour in the actions of the           men of that city, and in all their looks           and words.— X O you whom I ^often and silently come where           I you are, that I may be with you,  As I walk by your side, or sit near, or             remain in the same room with you,  Little you know the subtle electric fire that             for your sake is playing within me.— XI. Earth! My Likeness!  Though you look so           impassive, ample and spheric there--          —I now suspect that is not all, I now suspect there is something terrible in           you, ready to break forth,  For an athlete loves me, and I him-But           toward him there is something fierce           and terrible in me,  I dare not tell it in words—not even in these           songs.   XII To the young man, many things to absorb, to           engraft, to develop, I teach, that he be           my eleve,  But if through him speed rolls not the red            blood of divine friendship, hot and           red—If he be not silently selected by           lovers, and do not silently select           lovers—of what use were it for him to           seek to become eleve of mine?