Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.
From the rocks of hausfrauen sextreffen the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment traumfrau gesucht alle folgen of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them.
My brain it shall be your occult convolutions!
Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.) I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.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 at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the.The well-taken photographs-but your wife or friend close and solid in your arms?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?I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also.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.Still nodding night-mad naked summer night.(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.The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him.I resign myself to you also-I guess what you mean, I behold from the beach your crooked fingers, I believe you refuse to go back without feeling of me, We must have a turn together, I undress, hurry me out of sight of the land.Will you prove already too late?I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.I do not ask who you are, that is not important to me, You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you.Is he waiting for civilization, or past it and mastering it?
You seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old top-knot, what do you want?
I know perfectly well my own egotism, Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less, And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.
Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe.