Pink Narcissus Vereinigte Staaten — Regie: A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses, Head high in the forehead, wide between the ears, Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground, Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them? Broad muscular fields, branches of live oak, loving lounger in my winding paths, it shall be you! The transit to and from the magazine is now stopt by the sentinels, They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. Not a moment's cease, The leaks gain fast on the pumps, the fire eats toward the powder-magazine. And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!
Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or am touch'd from, The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer, This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me. It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. Far-swooping elbow'd earth--rich apple-blossom'd earth! Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son, Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding, No sentimentalist, no stander above men and women or apart from them, No more modest than immodest.
I hear the violoncello, 'tis the young man's heart's complaint, I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears, It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. Kidd wird in Brand gesteckt, so dass er ins Meer hinab springt. Where are you off to, lady? I help myself to material and immaterial, No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire. 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. The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me, And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. Unscrew the locks from the doors! I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. 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 and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. 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. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. I exist as I am, that is enough, If no other in the world be aware I sit content, And if each and all be aware I sit content. I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness dadurch. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around. Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and extrication, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt, And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire. Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. Vapors lighting and shading my face it shall be you!
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