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I am satisfied ... I see, dance, laugh, sing.
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To the garden of the world anew descending, Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding, The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being, Curious here behold my resurrection after slumber, The revolving cycles in their wide sweep having brought me again, amorous, mature, all beautiful to me, all wondrous, My limbs and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous, Existing I peer and penetrate still, Content with the present, content with the past, By my side or back of me Eve following, Or in front, and I following her just the same.
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The President eats dirt and excrement for his daily meals, likes it and tries to force it on The States.
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When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand, … Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further, I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave, But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied, He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
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Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gathered, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, what salutes of cannon and small arms!
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All truths wait in all things, They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it.
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A murmuring, fateful, giant voice, out of the earth and sky, Voice of a mighty dying tree in the Redwood forest dense... The wood-spirits came from their haunts of a thousand years, to join the refrain; But in my soul I plainly heard. Murmuring out of its myriad leaves, Down from its lofty top, rising two hundred feet high, Out of its stalwart trunk and limbs - out of its foot-thick bark, That chant of the seasons and time - chant, not of the past only, but of the future.
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When the materials are all prepared and ready, the architects shall appear.
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To behold the day-break! The little light fades the immense and diaphanous shadows, The air tastes good to my palate.
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Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space.
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I say you shall yet find the friend you were looking for.
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The powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse.
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Now understand me well. It is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.
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The ecstasy is so short but the forgetting is so long.
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Human bodies are words, myriads of words, (In the best poems re-appears the body, man's or woman's, well-shaped, natural, gay, Every part able, active, receptive, without shame or the need of shame.)
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For all these new and evolutionary facts, meanings, purposes, new poetic messages, new forms and expressions, are inevitable.
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Perhaps the efforts of the true poets, founders, religions, literatures, all ages, have been, and ever will be, our time and times to come, essentially the same - to bring people back from their present strayings and sickly abstractions, to the costless, average, divine, original concrete.
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Now I will do nothing but listen to accrue what I hear into this song. To let sounds contribute toward it. I hear the sound I love. The sound of the human voice. I hear all sounds running together.
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This is the city, and I am one of the citizens/Whatever interests the rest interests me.
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My little notebooks were beginnings - they were the ground into which I dropped the seed... I would work in this way when I was out in the crowds, then put the stuff together at home.
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Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun.... there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand.... nor look through the eyes of the dead.... nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
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I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-washed babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots.
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I meet new Walt Whitmans everyday. There are a dozen of them afloat. I don't know which Walt Whitman I am.
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Ah little recks the laborer, How near his work is holding him to God, The loving Laborer through space and time.