Oh strong-ridged and deeply hollowed
Nose of mine! what will you not be smelling?
What tactless asses we are, you and I, boney nose
Always indiscriminate, always unashamed
And now it is the souring flowers of the bedraggled
Poplars: a festering pulp on the wet earth
Beneath them. With what deep thirst
We quicken our desires
To that rank odor of a passing springtime!
Can you not be decent? Can you not reserve your ardors
For something less unlovely? What girl will care
For us, do you think, if we continue in these ways?
Must you taste everything? Must you know everything?
Must you have a part in everything?
He is being frank, telling to his nose, stop it, stop leading me. He wants to maintain some sort of propriety, even though he kind of likes it too. 
 The persona he is building is sort of a player 
 It is Whitmanian – like song of myself, he wants to include everything about everything in his nose. It’s kind of ironic – he really wants to be lead by his nose, underneath it all. 
 (Source:  Coursera – Modern Poetry  )
Smell