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You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets, I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare, And any thing.
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My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around.
Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine.
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!(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.Bra att känna till: Då har Shangri-La-bonusar även kommit till Folkeautomaten.Firm masculine colter it shall be you!The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.