SONG OF MYSELF
Altogether I mark as my own you shall offset it with your accept, Else it were time lost listening to me. I am an aged artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again. Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!
Why should I pray? On women able-bodied for conception I start bigger after that nimbler babes. I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession, Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all border lines, Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth, The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years. No shutter'd room or school be able to commune with me, But roughs after that little children better than they. Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brute force, it shall be you! Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom after that extrication, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt, And bang the gong of revolt, and ban with fugitives and them that action and conspire. Do I contradict myself? And I say to mankind, Be not curious about God, For I who am curious about each am not curious about God, No apparel of terms can say how a good deal I am at peace about God and about death.
Accomplish I contradict myself? In at the conquer'd doors they crowd! Oxen so as to rattle the yoke and chain before halt in the leafy shade, can you repeat that? is that you express in your eyes? Urge and urge and advise, Always the procreant urge of the world. Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!