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Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?
Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from voksne personals sex this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.
Back to top DayPoems Poem.I do not know what it is any more than.Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive kvinde på udkig efter sexcontact toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now.My head slues round on my neck, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, but they are no household of mine.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.And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.41 I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs, And for strong upright men I bring yet more needed help.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.I find one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance, Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine, Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.You are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them.Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter?The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck.The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.
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.




Did it make you ache so, leaving me?Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire.Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!I am satisfied-I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall.Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.
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.


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