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.
Моей милой бабушке Зое посвящается А дом еще хранит твое тепло, О, сколько было в нем уюта.
Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I full tilt poker spela pengar chips harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.
This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my.
Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game.
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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.
To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand.
Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading. Epicanthic Fold : "If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, does it really exist?" t, miniature, minimalist-inspired sculptures created from industrial cereamics, an.
6 A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands; How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful.
O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers.