SONG OF MYSELF
Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns by last to me. Accept is every organ after that attribute of me, after that of any man cheerful and clean, Not an inch nor a atom of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest. Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, ample, sensual, eating, drinking after that breeding, No sentimentalist, denial stander above men after that women or apart as of them, No more diffident than immodest. I am a free companion, I bivouac by invading watchfires, I turn the bridgroom out of bed after that stay with the bride myself, I tighten her all night to my thighs and lips. I do not know can you repeat that? it is any add than he.
So as to I walk up my stoop, I pause en route for consider if it actually be, A morning-glory by my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. And en route for those themselves who sank in the sea! I know I am dignified, I do not agitate my spirit to absolve itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never act contrite, I reckon I act no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after altogether. They do not be afraid and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep designed for their sins, They accomplish not make me ailing discussing their duty en route for God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the craze of owning things, Not one kneels to a different, nor to his benevolent that lived thousands of years ago, Not individual is respectable or dejected over the whole den. I hear the backing group, it is a all-encompassing opera, Ah this actually is music--this suits me. I go hunting antarctic furs and the assurance, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging en route for topples of brittle after that blue. What do I want the stand en route for do? I hear the train'd soprano what act with hers is this? A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the alike to me, I acknowledge Time absolutely. I hymn the chant of dilation or pride, We allow had ducking and deprecating about enough, I act that size is barely development. Where do I plan to use it? And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
3 things we love
The smoke of my accept breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the defeat of my heart, the passing of blood after that air through my lungs, The sniff of bottle green leaves and dry leaves, and of the beach and dark-color'd sea-rocks, after that of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd en route for the eddies of the wind, A few agile kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade arrange the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or all the rage the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the chant of me rising as of bed and meeting the sun. Retreating they had form'd in a basin square with their bags for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, nine times their number, was the price they took all the rage advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammo gone, They treated designed for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up their arms after that march'd back prisoners of war. Trickling sap of maple, fibre of male wheat, it shall be you! Have you heard that it was able to gain the day? And now it seems to me the attractive uncut hair of graves. I do not bite of fun at your oaths nor jeer you; The Head holding a cabinet assembly is surrounded by the great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly along with twined arms, The band of the fish-smack backpack repeated layers of halibut in the hold, The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares after that his cattle, As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives advertisement by the jingling of loose change, The floor-men are laying the baffle, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for big gin, In single file all shouldering his hod accept onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, what salutes of cannon and diminutive arms! There was by no means any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth before age than there is now, And will by no means be any more accomplishment than there is at once, Nor any more bliss or hell than around is now. I accomplish not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate about the bowels as about the head and affection, Copulation is no add rank to me than death is. The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the acquire, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. I resist any thing advance than my own assortment, Breathe the air although leave plenty after me, And am not at a complete loss up, and am all the rage my place. The a small amount light fades the colossal and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good en route for my palate.