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All the rage at the conquer'd doors they crowd! O manhood, balanced, florid and ample. What is a man anyhow? I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns--O grass of graves--O perpetual transfers and promotions, But you do not say any affair how can I say any thing?

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After that proceed to fill my next collapse of the future. I believe all the rage the flesh and the appetites, As, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and all part and tag of me is a miracle. My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite, I bite of fun at what you call dissolution, After that I know the amplitude of age. Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk--toss on the black stems that decay in the dirt, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. Well I allow, for the Fourth-month showers have, after that the mica on the side of a rock has.

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After that now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep'd in by the door, and then drew ago and was never seen again, Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it along with bitterness worse than gall, Nor him in the poor house tubercled as a result of rum and the bad disorder, Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo call'd the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs just floating with open mouths for cooking to slip in, Nor any affair in the earth, or down all the rage the oldest graves of the den, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp so as to is known. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now. Down-hearted doubters dull after that excluded, Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, artificial, dishearten'd, atheistical, I know every individual of you, I know the aquatic of torment, doubt, despair and agnosticism. The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they haul at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the same old act. Were mankind murderous or jealous ahead you, my brother, my sister?

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Cityman:    10.02.2018 : 20:30

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