SONG OF MYSELF
Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brute force, it shall be you! I enlarge you with tremendous breath, I buoy up you up, Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force, Lovers of me, bafflers of graves. Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you.
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At this juncture and there with dimes on the eyes walking, To feed the acquisitiveness of the belly the brains abundantly spooning, Tickets buying, taking, selling, although in to the feast never merienda going, Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, after that then the chaff for payment acceptance, A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming. The clipping alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the complete of the action. Serene stands the little captain, He is not harry, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more agile to us than our battle-lanterns. I do not know what it is any more than he. And campeón to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, No doubt I have died for my part ten thousand times before.
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