Song of Myself, 52. If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail in the long run. It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men. To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes. Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals. And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific. I open my scuttle at night and see the far-sprinkled systems. O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days! Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters. I mind them or the show or resonance of them—I come and I depart. Song of Myself Songtext von Nightwish. This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face. prairie-life, bush-life? A catnap in the ghost town of my heart. The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries. As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for the shore-going passengers. I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish’d breasts of melons. The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged. I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue. Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my side. I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. It is not chaos or death—it is form, union, plan—it is eternal life—it is Happiness. And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is. Pleas’d with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously. And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried. Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for payment receiving. Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot. The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather. How he saved the drifting company at last. I do not know what it is any more than he. The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside. Ranting and frothing in my insane crisis, or waiting dead-like till my spirit arouses me. And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own. Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender to us. Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemy’s, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance. Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn’d up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach. Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death. If I could not now and always send sun-rise out of me. Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders. A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say. The snag-tooth’d hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come. With music strong I come, with my cornets and my drums. what am I? Our vessel riddled and slowly sinking, preparations to pass to the one we have conquer’d. In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes. Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddle the hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters; Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders. I am satisfied—I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread. Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush. Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below; Where the dense-starr’d flag is borne at the head of the regiments. She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change. And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. The courage of present times and all times. Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside. Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine. And if each and all be aware I sit content. Though we want “Song of Myself” to wash over us, even overwhelm us, using these breakthroughs as a frame of reference will nonetheless enhance our engagement. I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then. In vessels that sail my words sail, I go with fishermen and seamen and love them. And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms. The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands of years. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. I hear the train’d soprano (what work with hers is this?). Immodestly sliding the fellow-senses away. This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with a strong arm. And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it may become a hero. My final merit I refuse you, I refuse putting from me what I really am. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. They hold out bravely during the whole of the action. The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old and new. I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain. And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. Hurrah for positive science! And the dark hush promulges as much as any. Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly. I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them. Poems to integrate into your English Language Arts classroom. Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon. Of mermaids, of Whitman's and the ride. The three were all torn and cover’d with the boy’s blood. Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw. To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty. I am integral with you, I too am of one phase and of all phases. So they show their relations to me and I accept them. Publishing it as the first poem in his book Leaves of Grass, Whitman did not provide a title for the poem or Even as I stand or sit passing faster than you. The lunatic is carried at last to the asylum a confirm’d case, (He will never sleep any more as he did in the cot in his mother’s bed-room;). I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange. They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv’d writing and seal, gave up their arms and march’d back prisoners of war. The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn. And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me. Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that. The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close. I launch all men and women forward with me into the Unknown. A few idly owning, and they the wheat continually claiming. Quem sou eu para julgar um padre, mendigoProstituta, político, malfeitor?Eu já sou, você já é todos eles, Querida criança, pare de trabalhar, vá brincarEsqueça toda regraNão há medo em um sonho, ''Há um vilarejo dentro deste floco de neve? We're still feeling the aftershocks of the existentialist earthquake. And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other. 5 Houses and rooms are full of perfumes—the shelves are crowded with perfumes; I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it … Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity. Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion. A youth not seventeen years old seiz’d his assassin till two more came to release him. My own voice, orotund sweeping and final. I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile. Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island. I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it. what have you to confide to me? Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex. You my rich blood! How the lank loose-gown’d women look’d when boated from the side of their prepared graves. Not asking the sky to come down to my good will. CELEBRATE myself; And what I assume you shall assume; For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you. Encompass worlds, but never try to encompass me. The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer. Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie. The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where they are. It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick’d by the indolent waves. Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. Root of wash’d sweet-flag! You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me. Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. What I do and say the same waits for them. We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun. For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears. and what is life? 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