It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital, Landscapes projected masculine, full-sized and golden. 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. What blurt is this about virtue and about vice? Only what proves itself to every man and woman is so, Only what nobody denies is so. I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. The sentries desert every other part of me, They have left me helpless to a red marauder, They all come to the headland to witness and assist against me. 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. 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 impalpable is in its place. An unseen hand dadurch pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.
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