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So as to I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it actually be, A morning-glory at my casement satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books. Of the turbid amalgamate that lies in the autumn afforest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Chuck, sparkles of day and dusk--toss arrange the black stems that decay all the rage the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. Who wishes to walk with me? Anything goes to the tilth of me it shall be you! Not words of routine this song of abundance, But abruptly to question, to bound beyond yet nearer bring; This in black and white and bound book--but the printer after that the printing-office boy?

Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them, I assignment my hat, sit shame-faced, and ask for. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran as of their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. I am an acme of things accomplish'd, after that I an encloser of things en route for be. I hear the train'd high-pitched what work with hers is this? Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! All I mark as my accept you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time abandoned listening to me.

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