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Vivas to those who have fail'd! Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch'd from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds.
Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.
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Serene stands the little captain, He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low, His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns. It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass on.
Firm masculine colter it shall be you! The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray, The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, the purchaser higgling about the odd cent; The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly, The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips, The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other, Miserable!
I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. A minute and a drop of me settle my brain, I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps, And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman, And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other, And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific, And until one and all shall delight us, and we them.
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around.
Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter?
Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves with his hand, He gasps through the clot Mind not me--mind--the entrenchments. I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.
Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.
Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you! All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.
One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.
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Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? Unscrew the locks from the doors!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea! I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music--this suits me.