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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 and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. 3 I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.
Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.
Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death.
Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.
Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.Næste morgen mødte mange frem med med alt fra 1½ liters flasker til baljer – eddike var udsolgt i hele byen, idet folk tømte dunkene i kloakken med henblik på at fylde dem med spiritus.Det viste sig imidlertid, til manges store skuffelse, at avisartiklen var en aprilsnar!Fabrikken (De Danske Spritfabrikkers fabrik til produktion af Gammel Dansk i Roskilde red.) gjorde sig blandt andet bemærket, da den lokale avis Roskilde Tidende bragte en historie om en produktion, der ved en fejl havde fået for høj alkoholprocent til det danske marked.Da man ikke kunne sælge produktet, kunne avisen meddele at man ville forære det væk til byens borgere, mod at man selv havde emballage med.1 I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.