All forces have been steadily employ'd to annonser voksen søker personlig venn complete and delight me, Now on this spot I den registrerte sex offenders i mitt område stand with my robust soul.
In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture-but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.
I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men.What have you to confide to me?I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music-this suits.Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them.And what is love?Continue your annotations, continue your questionings.
Does the daylight astonish?
47 I am the teacher of athletes, He that by me spreads a wider breast than my own proves the width of my own, He most honors my style who learns under it to destroy the teacher.You there, impotent, loose in the knees, Open your scarf'd chops till I blow grit within you, Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets, I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare, And any thing.The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray.It shall be you!I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, I see that the elementary laws never apologize, (I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.) I exist.An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.Through me many long dumb voices, Voices of the interminable generations of prisoners and slaves, Voices of the diseas'd and despairing and of thieves and dwarfs, Voices of cycles of preparation and accretion, And of the threads that connect the stars, and of wombs and.I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.Becoming already a creator, Putting myself here and now to the ambush'd womb of the shadows.
Smile O voluptuous cool-breath'd earth!
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.