O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
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.
Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves with his hand, He gasps through the clot Mind not me-mind-the entrenchments.
Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much?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.Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in incontri sexi como my face, With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, sto cercando un onesto uomo sulla faccia della terra Let the physician and the priest go home.This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a mathematician.You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets, I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare, And any thing.
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.
Does the early redstart twittering through the woods?
You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.
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.
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.
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!(Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so, Only what nobody denies.) A minute and a drop of me settle my brain, I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps, And a compend of compends is the meat.At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies; That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!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?Do I astonish more than they?Here and there with dimes on the eyes walking, To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning, Tickets buying, taking, selling, but in to the feast never once going, Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving, A few.There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.