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Jeg vidste ikke helt om det var farligt så tog afførings piller lige efter for at få det hele ud igen.
In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them.This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, This the thoughtful merge of myself, and.The sky up there-yet here or next door, or across the way?I anchor my ship for a little while only, My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns.(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.You my rich blood!We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.Dient auch eher als Hinweis für die Unwissenden!
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.
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.




I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now.Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk-toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?) The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them, It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the.We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every op zoek naar sexin witney one.
Sun so generous it shall be you!




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