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My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of køn gerningsmanden liste yukon ok my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
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.I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.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.Click here to learn more about how you can keep DayPoems on the Web.
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.
I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up, Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force, Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.
51 The past and present wilt-I have fill'd them, emptied them.
43 I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern, Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five.
14 The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation, The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close, Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.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!My breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for.42 A call in the midst of the crowd, My own voice, orotund sweeping and final.Does the daylight astonish?Come my children, Come my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates, Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on the reeds within.Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around.



I do not know what it is any more than.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?

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