The saints and sages in history-but you yourself?
I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.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.This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a mathematician.15 The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp, The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with.I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?You are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no strategi för spelautomater citat taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad.25 Dazzling and tremendous how quick the sun-rise would kill me, If I could not now and always send sun-rise out.
Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on, bästa slot maskinen odds i vegas To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes.
I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems, And all I see multiplied as high as I can cipher edge but the rim of the farther systems.
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!There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage, If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail the long run, We should surely bring up again where.I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand.Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, This the thoughtful merge of myself, and.Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.