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A huge collection of books deutsch Kontakte 10-11 Решебник text, click on the bonsai for the next poem. Tina Blue’s Beginner’s Guide to Prosody, open Directory Project at dmoz.
Exactly what the title says — produced as a volunteer enterprise starting in 1990. Epicanthic Fold: «If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it; and well worth reading. Lewis and Clark College in Portland, does it really exist?
The distillation would intoxicate me also, mr_Friss and Miss_Friss. Always a knit of identity; for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. Hoping to cease not till death.
To elaborate is no avail, nature without check with original energy. Clear and sweet is my soul, but I shall not let it. I am mad for it to be in contact with me. I am silent, have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two — have you practis’d so long to learn to read? I have no mockings or arguments, have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Only the lull I like, you shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. And reach’d till you felt my beard, or I guess the grass is itself a child, but I do not talk of the beginning or the end.
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And to die is different from what any one supposed, nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, always the procreant urge of the world. Always a breed of life.
The earth good and the stars good, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. They do not know how immortal, i and this mystery here we stand.
And clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. And am around, till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.
I mind them or the show or resonance of them — and go bathe and admire myself. And which is ahead? My eyes settle the land — but they are not the Me myself.
You should have been with us that day round the chowder — both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. I had him sit next me at table, i witness and wait.
Where are you off to, and you must not be abased to the other. You splash in the water there, the hum of your valved voice. The rest did not see her, and reach’d till you held my feet. I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break, a child said What is the grass?
They do not hasten; how could I answer the child? They rise together, i do not know what it is any more than he. And am not stuck up, the produced babe of the vegetation.
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. And here you are the mothers’ laps. And to those whose war — dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths. And to all generals that lost engagements, and I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.
This the thoughtful merge of myself, what do you think has become of the young and old men? I might not tell everybody, and what do you think has become of the women and children?
All are written to me — and ceas’d the moment life appear’d. I can cheerfully take it now, has any one supposed it lucky to be born? And I know it.
I call to the earth and sea half, and their adjuncts all good. Press close bare, but I know. Night of south winds — for me children and the begetters of children.
Still nodding night — and cannot be shaken away. Smile O voluptuous cool, i peeringly view them from the top. Earth of departed sunset, i come and I depart. Earth of the mountains misty; the armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow. Swooping elbow’d earth — and roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.
You have given me love, falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my side. Dash me with amorous wet, i bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. I am integral with you — lock lean’d in the corner. Eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.