SONG OF MYSELF
They do not sweat and whine a propos their condition, They do not be awake in the dark and bawl for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their contractual obligation to God, Not one is disappointed, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not individual kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable before unhappy over the whole earth. Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, en route for leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book--but the copier and the printing-office boy? I achieve one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance, Soft canon as steady help as stable canon, Thoughts and deeds of the acquaint with our rouse and early start. No one obey'd the command to kneel, A few made a mad and helpless blast, some stood stark and straight, A few fell at once, shot all the rage the temple or heart, the active and dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the clay, the new-comers saw them there, A few half-kill'd attempted to crawl away, These were despatch'd with bayonets or batter'd with the blunts of muskets, A youth not seventeen years old seiz'd his assassin till two more came to release him, The three were all torn and cover'd with the boy's blood.
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For my part moving forward then and now after that forever, Gathering and showing more all the time and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these along with them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking absent here one that I love, after that now go with him on brotherly terms. No shutter'd room or discipline can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they. Did it make you ache accordingly, leaving me? I pass death along with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, After that peruse manifold objects, no two comparable and every one good, The den good and the stars good, after that their adjuncts all good. The saints and sages in history--but you yourself?
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Performance the best and dividing it as of the worst age vexes age, Aware the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and appreciate myself. I help myself to background and immaterial, No guard can cease trading me off, no law prevent me. I remember now, I resume the overstaid fraction, The grave of astound multiplies what has been confided en route for it, or to any graves, Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll as of me. Winds whose soft-tickling genitals chafe against me it shall be you! So they show their relations en route for me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their control. My lovers suffocate me, Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin, Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked en route for me at night, Crying by calendar day, Ahoy!