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Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves, I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath, Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death, At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles, And that we call Being.

They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

Sign In to your account to avoid repeating this across your devices. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.

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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 I emit, nor the cause of the friendship I take again.

I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place. I am he attesting sympathy, Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

Walt Whitman: Song of Myself

Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!

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

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet.

Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!

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Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. Gentlemen, to you the first honors always! 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.

Press close bare-bosom'd night--press close magnetic nourishing night! Fetch stonecrop mixt with cedar and branches of lilac, This is the lexicographer, this the chemist, this made a grammar of the old cartouches, These mariners put the ship through dangerous New dating app london seas.

I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul, My course runs below the soundings of plummets.

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If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you!

Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks. 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.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.

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Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt, And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire.

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.

And mine a word of the modern, the word En-Masse.