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the old.
20 Who goes there?
You are not guilty to me, nor sex offender kart eugene, oregon stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world.Behold, I do not give lectures or a little charity, When I give I give myself.Magnifying and applying come I, Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters, Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah, Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson, Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha, In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah.Who will soonest be through with his supper?I find I incorporate gneiss, coal, long-threaded moss, fruits, grains, esculent roots, And am stucco'd with quadrupeds and birds all over, And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons, But call any thing back again when I desire.Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?
Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan, Rich showering rain, and recompense richer afterward.
The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the.She owns the fine house by the rise samme kjønn folkeavstemning dato of the bank, She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product, And look at quintillions ripen'd and look at quintillions green.Whoever degrades another degrades me, And whatever is done or said returns at last.32 I think I could turn and live with animals, they are so placid and self-contain'd, I stand and look at them long and long.From the rocks of the river, swinging and chirping over my head, Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush, Lighting on every moment of my life, Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses, Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and giving them.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
12 The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market, I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.
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.