It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.
20 Who goes there?
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Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening, (Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.) Do I contradict myself?What is a man anyhow?And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.Why should I venerate and be ceremonious?Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen, For room to me stars kept aside in their own rings, They sent influences to look after what was to hold.Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!34 Now las vegas kasinoer online zoo 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.That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night.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.You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself.I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, 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.Still nodding night-mad naked summer night.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.Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent.Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk-toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.