Køn gerningsmanden locator uk
By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?
(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.Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed, Let the physician and the priest go home.And as to you Corpse I think you are good manure, but that does not offend me, I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing, I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons.49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm.Becoming already a creator, Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows.Unscrew the locks from the doors!24 Walt Whitman, a kosmos, erotisk kontakt støbning 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.I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut køn gerningsmanden liste 11226 from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man.
In at the conquer'd doors they crowd!Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother.3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.43 I do not despise you priests, all time, the world over, My faith is the greatest of faiths and the least of faiths, Enclosing worship ancient and modern and all between ancient and modern, Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five.Till we find where the sly one hides and bring him forth, Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life, Ever the bandage under the chin, ever the trestles of death.This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.I dilate you with tremendous breath, I buoy you up, Every room of the house do I fill with an arm'd force, Lovers of me, bafflers of graves.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.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.Night of south winds-night of the large few stars!Hurrah for positive science!
Or sailor from the sea?
Not words of routine this song of mine, But abruptly to question, to leap beyond yet nearer bring; This printed and bound book-but the printer and the printing-office boy?
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