Walt Whitman: Song of Myself Walt Whitman: Song of Myself

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If our colors are struck and the fighting done? Which of the young men does she like the best? Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt Beste norske dating app the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? 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.

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Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.

Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you! This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a mathematician.

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The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no 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 for it to be in contact with me. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God! Do I Beste norske dating app more than they? Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!

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Mine is no callous shell, I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop, They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean, Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them. Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent, My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait, I moisten the roots of all that has grown.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

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I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth.

Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation, Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.

I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

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Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs, Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also. Why should I pray? One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself, And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years, I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait.

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?

The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother Good username for dating profile old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the murderous buckshot and the bullets, All these I feel or am.

It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on. Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you! I resign myself to you also--I guess what you mean, I behold from the beach your crooked fingers, I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me, We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land, Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse, Dash me with amorous wet, I can repay you.