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23 Endless unfolding of words of ages!
20 Who goes there?And what is love?That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!11 Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly; Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.Will you prove already too late?I find one side a balance and the antipedal side a balance, Soft doctrine as steady help as stable doctrine, Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start.No shutter'd room or school can commune with me, But roughs and little children better than they.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.Were mankind murderous or jealous upon you, my brother, my sister?
The boy I love, the same becomes a man not through derived power, but in his own right, Wicked rather than virtuous out of conformity or fear, Fond of his sweetheart, relishing well his steak, Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp.
I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the in the woods never studied the.
Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon spil spil, og penge at tjene as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence.
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?
What blurt is this about virtue and about vice?Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.You seem to look for something at my hands, Say, old top-knot, what do you want?Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you!Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!40 Flaunt of the sunshine I need not your bask-lie over!Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.