domingo, 4 de marzo de 2012

19 (Song of Myself By Walt Whitman)

This is the meal equally set,
this the meat for natural hunger,
It is for the wicked just same as the righteous,
I make appoints with all,
I will not have a single person slighted or left away,
The kept-woman, sponger, thief, are hereby invitesd;
The shall be not difference between them and the rest.
This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair,
This is the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearing,
This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face,
This the thoughful merge of my self, and the oulet again.

¿Do you guess I have some intricate purpose?
Well I have, for the fourth-month showers have,
and the mica on the side of a rock has.

Do you have it I would astonish?
Does the daylight astonish?
Does the early redstart twittweing through the woods?
Do I astonish more than they?

This hour I tell things in conference,
I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

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