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Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book-but the printer and the printing-office boy?This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.27 To be in any form, what is that?Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!In at the conquer'd doors they crowd!I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.My breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for.Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.Did it make you ache so, leaving me?Man or woman, I might tell how I like you, but cannot, And might tell what it is in me and what it is in you, but cannot, And might tell that pining I have, that pulse of my nights and days.I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development.I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?I am satisfied-I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall.Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation, Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms.
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs!
I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.
Easily written loose-finger'd chords-I feel the thrum of your climax slot maskinen turneringar 000 and close.I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them.Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent.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!49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm.
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.