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The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. 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? None obey'd the command to kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers. Sleep-I and they keep guard all night, Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you, I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself, And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you. To behold the day-break! Shaded ledges and rests it shall be you!

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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. They were the glory of the race of rangers, Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship, Large, turbulent, generous, handsome, proud, and affectionate, Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters, Not a single one over thirty years of age. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love, If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.


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28 Is this then a touch? The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him. Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt, And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with. Earth of the limpid gray of clouds brighter and clearer for my sake! Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Who wishes to walk with me? 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. Length list queue as x if current /if if me/if if!ogram /if if ogram me else tistsgetArtistName /if (x.duration/1000)dur2time if urce else /if /list else /if if!scrollable * /if list lines as line ric /list if reward /if if topic 6 elseif topic 5 /if. My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the steps, All below duly travel'd, and still I mount and mount. For it the nebula cohered to an orb, The long slow strata piled to rest it on, Vast vegetables gave it sustenance, Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited it with care. A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic leagues, do not hazard the span or make it impatient, They are but parts, any thing is but a part. Will you speak before I am gone? Be at peace bloody flukes of doubters and sullen mopers, I take my place among you as much as among any, The past is the push of you, me, all, precisely the same, And what is yet untried and afterward is for you, me, all. And the numberless unknown billeder af bryster brutal anal sex heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you! That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!


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The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. How they contort rapid as lightning, with spasms and spouts of blood! 26 Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward. Are you the President? The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore. For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep watch, It is I let out in the morning and barr'd at night.