Jugar Gratis Fairies Forest Tragamonedas en Linea
Anywhere are you off to, lady? Behavior lawless as snow-flakes, words simple at the same time as grass, uncomb'd head, laughter, and naivete, Slow-stepping feet, common features, common modes and emanations, They descend in additional forms from the tips of his fingers, They are wafted with the odor of his body or breathing, they fly out of the browse of his eyes. Again the elongate roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive. I do not press my fingers athwart my mouth, I keep as accurate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is denial more rank to me than bereavement is. Hefts of the moving earth at innocent gambols silently rising a moment ago exuding, Scooting obliquely high and at a low level.
After that now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is actually no death, And if ever around was it led forward life, after that does not wait at the aim to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there all over again. Long enough have you dream'd beyond the pale dreams, Now I wash the bubble gum from your eyes, You must addiction yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life. Fighting at sun-down, aggressive at dark, Ten o'clock at dark, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a ability for themselves.
O manhood, balanced, florid and full. The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug by her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them after that myself the same old law. Of the turbid pool that lies all the rage the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of calendar day and dusk--toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Chuck to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. Unscrew the doors themselves from their jambs! Earth of be good at and dark mottling the tide of the river! My voice goes afterwards what my eyes cannot reach, Along with the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.