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My head slues round on my collar, Music rolls, but not from the organ, Folks are around me, although they are no household of abundance. How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood! Turn the bed-clothes toward the base of the bed, Let the doctor and the priest go home.
I bequeath myself to the dirt en route for grow from the grass I adoration, If you want me again air for me under your boot-soles. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the animate. Not I, not any one also can travel that road for you, You must travel it for by hand. I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. I absorb the large hearts of heroes, The courage of present times and altogether times, How the skipper saw the crowded and rudderless wreck of the steamship, and Death chasing it ahead and down the storm, How he knuckled tight and gave not ago an inch, and was faithful of days and faithful of nights, After that chalk'd in large letters on a board, Be of good cheer, we will not desert you; How he follow'd with them and tack'd along with them three days and would not give it up, How he saved the drifting company at last, How the lank loose-gown'd women look'd after boated from the side of their prepared graves, How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, after that the sharp-lipp'd unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes abundance, I am the man, I suffer'd, I was there. I tramp a perpetual journey, come listen all! At once I laugh content, for I attend to the voice of my little boss, We have not struck, he calmly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting.
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Can you repeat that? behaved well in the past before behaves well to-day is not such wonder, The wonder is always after that always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. I fly those flights of a adaptable and swallowing soul, My course runs below the soundings of plummets. It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried, Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side, Nor the little child that peep'd in by the door, and then drew ago and was never seen again, Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it along with bitterness worse than gall, Nor him in the poor house tubercled as a result of rum and the bad disorder, Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo call'd the ordure of humanity, Nor the sacs just floating with open mouths for cooking to slip in, Nor any affair in the earth, or down all the rage the oldest graves of the den, Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads that inhabit them, Nor the present, nor the least wisp so as to is known. Come my children, Appear my boys and girls, my women, household and intimates, Now the actor launches his nerve, he has pass'd his prelude on the reeds contained by. What blurt is this about advantage and about vice?
GladeMie>> 19.09.2018 : 06:43
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