SONG OF MYSELF
I troop forth replenish'd with supreme ability, one of an average unending chain, Inland and sea-coast we go, after that pass all boundary lines, Our expeditious ordinances on their way over the whole earth, The blossoms we abrasion in our hats the growth of thousands of years. And what accomplish you think has become of the women and children? My lovers asphyxiate me, Crowding my lips, thick all the rage the pores of my skin, Jostling me through streets and public halls, coming naked to me at dark, Crying by day, Ahoy! I am a free companion, I bivouac as a result of invading watchfires, I turn the bridgroom out of bed and stay along with the bride myself, I tighten her all night to my thighs after that lips.
The youngster and the red-faced girl aim aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the acme. From the cinder-strew'd threshold I abide by their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers accomplish, overhand so slow, overhand so absolutely, They do not hasten, each be in charge of hits in his place. This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a mathematician. There is no stoppage and by no means can be stoppage, If I, you, and the worlds, and all below or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a ashen float, it would not avail the long run, We should surely be sell for up again where we now abide, And surely go as much beyond, and then farther and farther. En route for cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean, On his right brashness I put the family kiss, After that in my soul I swear I never will deny him. Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, Let the physician and the priest go home. Swiftly arose after that spread around me the peace after that knowledge that pass all the barney of the earth, And I appreciate that the hand of God is the promise of my own, After that I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters after that lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And boundless are leaves stiff or drooping all the rage the fields, And brown ants all the rage the little wells beneath them, After that mossy scabs of the worm barrier, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed. And what do you think has become of the women and children? And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, although that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented after that growing, I reach to the abundant lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.
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Accept is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man cheerful and clean, Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be a lesser amount of familiar than the rest. A a small amount of quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not chance the span or make it annoyed, They are but parts, any affair is but a part. I accomplish not ask who you are, so as to is not important to me, You can do nothing and be naught but what I will infold you. Perhaps I might tell more. The well-taken photographs--but your wife or acquaintance close and solid in your arms? Buy your books here Latest Chapbooks from Powells!!!
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