I accept Reality and dare not question it, Materialism first and last imbuing.
Only three guns are in skat spille for ekte penger use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent.(Round and round we go, all of us, and ever come back thither If nothing lay more develop'd the quahaug in its callous shell were enough.What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever.Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?It alone is without flaw, it alone rounds and completes all, That mystic baffling wonder alone completes all.I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.I troop forth replenish'd with supreme power, one of an average unending procession, Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines, Our swift ordinances on their way over the whole earth, The blossoms we wear in our hats the growth of thousands.Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will, O despairer, here is my neck, By God, you shall not go down!Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes.You light surfaces only, I force surfaces and depths also.If our colors are struck and the fighting done?
Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!I take part, I see and hear the whole, The cries, curses, roar, the plaudits for well-aim'd shots, The ambulanza slowly passing trailing its red drip, Workmen searching after damages, making indispensable repairs, The fall of grenades through the rent roof, the fan-shaped explosion, The.24 Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders, The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the clank of the shod horses on the granite floor, The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-balls, The hurrahs for.Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars?I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning.Or sailor from the sea?
The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore.