15 The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp, The married and variasjon i voksen personlighet utvikling unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with.
From the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them.
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.
Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.Who will soonest be through with his supper?29 Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath'd hooded sharp-tooth'd touch!Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.I resign myself to you also-I guess what you mean, I behold from the beach your crooked fingers, I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me, We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land.Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?O unspeakable passionate love.One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking.The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.The saints and sages in history-but you yourself?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.5 I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other.Let it all out!My breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for.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.Press close bare-bosom'd night-press close magnetic nourishing night!By the city's quadrangular houses-in log huts, camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests, Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees.What are you doing?And what is life?Not a mutineer walks handcuff'd to jail but I am handcuff'd to him and walk by his side, (I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips.) Not a youngster is taken for larceny but.
