Walt Whitman: Song of Myself

Song of Myself

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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 man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with bitterness worse than gall, Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder, Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo call'd the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in, Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known. She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. I ascend to the foretruck, I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest, We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough, Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty, The enormous masses of ice pass me and I pass them, the scenery is plain in all directions, The white-topt mountains show in the distance, I fling out my fancies toward them, We are approaching some great battle-field in which we are soon to be engaged, We pass the colossal outposts of the encampment, we pass with still feet and caution, Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city, The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe. The sky up there--yet here or next door, or across the way? In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. 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.

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Sun so generous it shall be you! What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? And what do you think has become of the women and children? The clock indicates the moment--but what does eternity indicate? O manhood, balanced, florid and full.

Впрочем, она вполне понимала, что хочет поговорить с другом, лучше всего с Ричардом, - разделить с кем-то свои переживания. Перед тобой склад, где хранятся крошечные создания. Он очень о многом ей не сказал - о многих вещах, которых теперь стыдился. - Когда мы внесем эту поправку, - добавил Стратмор, - мне будет все равно, сколько ключей гуляет по свету: чем их больше, тем забавнее. - Иди сюда, - крикнул он Эпонине.

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Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. Easily written loose-finger'd chords--I feel the thrum of your climax and close.

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Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive. 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 same old law.

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The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place, The palpable is in its place and the esrvice is in its place. I guess it must be the flag subredsit my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. So they dating service subreddit their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers, I take my place among you as much as among any, The past is the push of you, dating service subreddit, all, military hook up websites the dating service subreddit, And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all, precisely the same. O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. Who wishes to walk with me? I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.