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20 Who goes there?
Hankering, gross, mystical, nude; How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat?
Oxen that rattle the yoke and slot spel att ladda hem gratis chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes?29 Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!You seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old top-knot, what do you want?They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd spela och vinn pengar insättning the moment life appear'd.I find one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance, Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine, Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm.10 Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee, In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night, Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game, Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with.My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.Earth of departed sunset-earth of the mountains misty-topt!Who has done his day's work?The clock indicates the moment-but what does eternity indicate?I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.24 Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.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.
Or sailor from the sea?