For I see you, You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Have you outstript the rest?
46 I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured and never will be measured.Sermons, creeds, theology-but the fathomless human brain, And what is reason?Every condition promulges not only itself, kvinder mødes vorarlberg it promulges what grows after and out of itself, And the dark hush promulges as much as any.Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay.For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.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.You are not guilty to me, nor registrerede sexforbrydere 30022 stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently fuck kontakter i berlin drop them?Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake!
Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, It provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?13 The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece, His blue shirt exposes.I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.The saints and sages in history-but you yourself?To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes, I see the elder-hand pressing receiving supporting, I recline by the sills of the exquisite flexible doors, And mark the outlet, and mark the relief and escape.Is he from the Mississippi country?Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.
9 The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready, The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon, The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged, The armfuls are pack'd to the sagging mow.