I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also. Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs, Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and of the father-stuff, And of the rights of them the others are down upon, Of the deform'd, trivial, flat, foolish, despised, Fog in the air, beetles rolling balls of dung. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are dadurch my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed. 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. I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Klar and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marksmen, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the ooze of my skin, I fall on the weeds and stones, The riders spur their unwilling horses, haul close, Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. My brain it shall be your occult convolutions! 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. Earth of departed sunset--earth of the mountains misty-topt!
What do you think has become of the young and old men? Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven. I but use you a minute, then I resign you, stallion, Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them? Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you! I anchor my ship for a little while only, My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me.
I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out. And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.
So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive. Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.
I am he attesting sympathy, Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them? 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. Hurrah for positive science! I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth. I do not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death is.
I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green. There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team dadurch. Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then? And what do you think has become of the women and children? Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war. Our foe was no sulk in his ship I tell you, said he, His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be; Along the lower'd eve he came horribly raking us. If our colors are struck and the fighting done? One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.
16.04.2018 : 00:48 Shajind:
Ich denke, dass Sie nicht recht sind. Ich kann die Position verteidigen. Schreiben Sie mir in PM.
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