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It shall be you!
Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged, Missing me one place search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.Give me a little time beyond my cuff'd head, slumbers, dreams, gaping, I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.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.49 And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm.I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.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 depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun, I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.Immense have been the preparations for me, Faithful and friendly the arms that have help'd.Is he waiting for civilization, or past zeze di camargo e luciano as melhores cd it and mastering it?My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around.If you are like us, you have strong feelings about poetry, and about each poem you read.I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.
The sky up there-yet here or next door, or across the way?
My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.
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.
Only three guns are in use, One is directed by the captain himself against the enemy's main-mast, Two well serv'd with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks.Did it make you ache so, leaving me?In the houses the dishes and fare and furniture-but the host and hostess, and the look out of their eyes?Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender.And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.27 To be in any form, what is that?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.In at the conquer'd doors they crowd!And to those themselves who sank in the sea!On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes.