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In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture-but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
Embody all presences outlaw'd or suffering, See myself in prison shaped like another man, And feel the dull unintermitted pain.
A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving.
Comment on this poem, any poem, DayPoems, other poetry places or the art of poetry at DayPoems Feedback.What do you think has become of the young and old men?In vain the speeding or shyness, In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach, In vain the mastodon retreats beneath its own powder'd bones, In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes, In vain the ocean settling in hollows.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.His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.
49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm.
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.
I chant the chant of dilation or pride, We have had ducking and deprecating about enough, I show that size is only development.
My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain, The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms, The great Camerado, the lover true for whom I pine will be there.
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!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.I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut 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.Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on, To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes.Do I astonish more than they?Winds whose soft-tickling genitals rub against me it shall be you!Will you speak before I am gone?One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like man leaving charges before a journey.