They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania.
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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.Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?Look to your arms!So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.To behold the day-break!27 To be in any form, what is that?Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback.
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.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
Did it make you ache so, leaving me?Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.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.I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand.By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house en kvinde for at få at vide ting, for and skip the house that supports them?) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not single one can it fall.
Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt, And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt.