This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation, Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded?
Something I cannot see puts upward libidinous prongs, Seas of bright juice suffuse heaven.Let it all out!From the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them.We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water, On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire, killing all around and blowing up overhead.33 Space and Time!For I see you, You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
34 Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth, (I tell not the fall of Alamo, Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo 'Tis the tale of the murder.
Have you outstript the rest?
I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers, I take my place among you as much as among any, The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same, And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all.Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you!I follow you whoever you are from the present hour, My words itch at your ears till you understand them.And what do you think has become of the women and children?I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them.This minute that comes to me over the past decillions, There is no better than it and now.Each who passes is consider'd, each who stops is consider'd, not single one can it fall.A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient, They are but parts, any thing is but a part.I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, lijst van gok spellen merken roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs, The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion, The.And what is life?