His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him, spil casino, poker spil His well-built limbs tremble with pleasure as we race around and return.
Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.
And what is love?Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.Old age superbly rising!The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail'd coats I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas I acknowledge the duplicates of myself, the weakest and shallowest is deathless with me, What I do and say the same.
Breast that presses against other breasts it shall be you!
Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you!
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.
Waiting in gloom, protected by frost, The dirt receding before my prophetical screams, I underlying causes to balance them at last, My knowledge my live parts, it keeping tally with the meaning of all things, Happiness, (which whoever hears me let him or her set.
I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man.I am sorry for you, they are not murderous or jealous upon me, All has been gentle with me, I keep no account with lamentation, (What have I to do with lamentation?) I am an acme of things accomplish'd, and I an encloser of things.Toward twelve there in the beams of the moon they surrender.The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen.I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full.By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.Who has done his day's work?