In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture-but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
I dote on myself, there is that lot of me and all so luscious, Each moment and whatever happens thrills me with joy, I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish, Nor the cause of the friendship.
I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent.Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!13 The negro holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags underneath on its tied-over chain, The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and tall he stands pois'd on one leg on the string-piece, His blue shirt exposes.Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback.Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.The atmosphere is not busco un hombre poema a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad.They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age.
My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around.
O manhood, balanced, florid and full.
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
30 All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it, They do not need the obstetric forceps of the surgeon, The insignificant is as big to me as any, (What is less or more than a touch?) Logic and.
31 I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the.The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust.A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me, The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.Your facts are useful, and yet they are not my dwelling, I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling.Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last.I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can stand.My voice is the wife's voice, the screech by the rail of the stairs, They fetch my man's body up dripping and drown'd.