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A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me, The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
At eleven o'clock began the burning of the bodies; That is the tale of the murder of the four hundred and twelve young men.Why should I wish to see God better than this day?The disdain and calmness of martyrs, The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with hvordan spilleautomater betale keno dry wood, her children gazing on, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blowing, cover'd with sweat, The twinges that sting like needles his.The black ship mail'd with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets-but the pluck of the captain and engineers?Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.Sleep-I and they keep guard all night, Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you, I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself, And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you.Not a cholera patient lies at the last gasp but I also lie at the last gasp, My face is ash-color'd, my sinews gnarl, away from me people retreat.23 Endless unfolding of words of ages!The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.
In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing, To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing, Absorbing all to myself and for this song.
Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, Let the physician and the priest go home.
It shall be you!
I do not press my fingers across my mouth, I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart, Copulation is no more rank to me than death.In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them.It is a trifle, they will more than arrive there every one, and still pass.Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.Are you the President?Have you heard that it was good to gain the day?I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-pointed staff, clinging to topples of brittle and blue.O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.