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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.
That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!
Myself moving forward then and now and forever, Gathering and showing more always and with velocity, Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them, Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now.
I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken, Tumbling walls buried me in their debris, Heat and smoke I inspired, I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades, I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels, They have clear'd the beams away, they.
Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk-toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.How the flukes splash!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.Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then?Let it all out!The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.The authors of poetry and other material appearing on DayPoems retain full rights to their work.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.What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?I anchor my ship for a little while only, My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns.

39 The friendly and flowing savage, who is he?
That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be, A morning-glory at my window satisfies me more than the metaphysics of books.
Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work'd over and rectified?
The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of the promenaders, erotiske kontakter til kvinner 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.I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean, On his right cheek I put the family kiss, And in my soul I swear I never will deny him.And to those themselves who sank in the sea!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.Do I astonish more than they?I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me?