I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music-this suits.
20 Who goes there?
I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires, I turn the bridgroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself, I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips.
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.
I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.Perhaps I might tell more.And what is life?In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture-but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats essex county lokal papir toward the powder-magazine.My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels, He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit, And greater sets follow, making specks of the greatest inside them.
(This day I am jetting the stuff of far more arrogant republics.) To any one dying, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door.
36 Stretch'd and still lies the midnight, Two great hulls motionless on the breast of the darkness, Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer'd, The captain on the quarter-deck coldly giving his orders through a countenance white.
We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.
Will you prove already too late?
I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.Sun so generous it shall be you!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.Evil propels me and reform of evil propels me, I stand indifferent, My gait is no fault-finder's or rejecter's gait, I moisten the roots of all that has grown.I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy, I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship.Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.) Do I contradict myself?My face rubs to the hunter's face when he lies down alone in his blanket, The driver thinking of me does not mind the jolt of his wagon, The young mother and old mother comprehend me, The girl and the wife rest the needle.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.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.