I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
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 a man.
Speech is the twin of my vision, it is unequal to measure itself, it provokes me forever, it says sarcastically, Walt you contain enough, why don't you let it out then?
I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
All architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.
O Captain! My Captain! our fearful trip is done.
And as to you Death, and you bitter hug of mortality, it is idle to try to alarm me.... 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 polished breasts of melons. And as to you life, I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.
Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last to me.
I henceforth tread the world, chaste, temperate, an early riser, a steady grower.
Long and long has the grass been growing, Long and long has the rain been falling, Long has the globe been rolling round.
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd / And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night, / I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
I wear my hat as I please, indoors or out.
I inhale great draught of space...the east and west are mine...and the north and south are mine...I am grandeur than I thought...I did not know i held so much goodness.
I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware, I sit content, And if each and all be aware, I sit content.
I am the man, I suffered, I was there.
Clear and sweet is my soul, clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
O to speed where there is space enough and air enough at last!
Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged. Missing me one place, search another. I stop somewhere waiting for you.
storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning, Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing, I tread day and night such roads.
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
The question, O me! so sad, recurring - What good amid these, O me, O life? That you are here - that life exists and identity, that the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.
I am for those who believe in loose delights, I share the midnight orgies of young men, I dance with the dancers and drink with the drinkers.
If you want me again look for me under your boot soles.
The process of reading is not a half sleep, but in the highest sense, an exercise, a gymnast's struggle: that the reader is to do something for him or herself, must be on the alert, just construct indeed the poem, argument, history, metaphysical essay--the text furnishing the hints, the clue, the start, the framework.
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
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