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My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain, The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms, The great Camerado, the vegas spelautomater till salu 2011 lover true for whom I pine will be there.
It must not be accessed by anyone under the age of 18 (or the age of consent in the jurisdiction from which it is being accessed).Your milky stream pale strippings of my life!What is a man anyhow?Why should I wish to see God better than this day?No shutter'd room or school can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they.O manhood, balanced, florid and full.The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders, The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor, The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls, The hurrahs for.I am the poet of the woman the same as gratis online slots bonusar utan nedladdning keno the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps, All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount.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.Do you take it I would astonish?It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.39 The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?I remember now, I resume the overstaid fraction, The grave of rock multiplies what has been confided to it, or to any graves, Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from.The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him.My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.21 I am the poet of the Body and I am the poet of the Soul, The pleasures of heaven are with me and the pains of hell are with me, The first I graft and increase upon myself, the latter I translate into new.I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy, I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship.
What do you think has become of the young and old men?