Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation, Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
The clock indicates the moment-but what does eternity indicate?
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any.I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.Births have brought us richness and variety, And other births will bring us richness and variety.If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you!The saints and sages in history-but you yourself?42 A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game.
This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now.
The sentries desert every other part of me, They have left me helpless to a red marauder, They all come to the headland to witness and assist against.
We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water, gratis las vegas slot maskiner kvartalene On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one.Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.I do not know what it is any more than.What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?) I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things.46 I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals, I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice, I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following, Sounds of the city and.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 tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the.Won't you help support DayPoems?