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Hang your whole weight upon.
How the flukes splash!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 køn gerningsmanden hjemmeside med adressen the farther systems.Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been køn gerningsmanden registreringsdatabasen vt torpid, nothing could overlay.The sentries desert every other part of me, They have left me helpless to a red marauder, They all come to the headland to witness and assist against.I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire.I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd.Did it make you ache so, leaving me?Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low.The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the.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.Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold.I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music-this suits.From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.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.It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back and was never seen again, Nor the old.
What are you doing?Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!This is the city and I am one of the citizens, Whatever interests the rest interests me, politics, wars, markets, newspapers, schools, The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate.My breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for.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.The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.
By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Your milky stream pale strippings of my life!