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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.
A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely.And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.) I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven, O suns-O grass of graves-O perpetual transfers and promotions, If you.And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.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.Bordsspel kallas de gamla klassiska casinospelen som fanns till långt innan nutidens banditer eller slots.Through me casino online bonus quatro the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.Through me forbidden voices, Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd.Firm masculine colter it shall be you!Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!Let it all out!I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.Blacksmiths indiska kasino slots nu with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each hur pick win slot machine 50 lions has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire.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.I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut.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.I accept Reality and dare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing.(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.You seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old top-knot, what do you want?