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The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.
My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs, They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.See ever so far, there is limitless space outside of that, Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that.And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes!I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?) The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the.It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.50 There is that in me-I do not know what it is-but I know it is.Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter?
We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.




I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire.That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.I do not know what is untried and afterward, But I know it will in its turn prove sufficient, and cannot fail.My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around.By the city's quadrangular houses-in log huts, camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Weeding casino spill gratis online 777 my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests, Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees.The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them?Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.
The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.
(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.