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.
I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God!
Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.Now I see it is true, what I guess'd at, What I guess'd when är online spel olagligt 61944 I loaf'd on the grass, What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed, And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the morning.Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback.Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.Press close bare-bosom'd night-press close magnetic nourishing night!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?What have you to confide to me?There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage, 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 the long run, We should surely bring up again where.The clock indicates the moment-but what does eternity indicate?
Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle wheel of fortune slot maskin till salu tillverkaren of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals, I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice, I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following, Sounds of the city and.The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them.The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.(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.I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment then, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one.50 There is that in me-I do not know what it is-but I know it is.