None obey'd the command to echte online slot machine snel hit kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers.
If you are like us, you have strong feelings about poetry, and about each poem you read.
From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.
Who will soonest be through with his supper?
One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk like man leaving charges before a journey.The soldier camp'd or upon the march is mine, On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them, On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek.15 The pure contralto sings in the organ loft, The carpenter dresses his plank, the tongue of his foreplane whistles its wild ascending lisp, The married and unmarried children ride home to their Thanksgiving dinner, The pilot seizes the king-pin, he heaves down with.Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul.What are you doing?Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him, They desire he should like them, touch them, speak to them, stay with them.That I could forget the trickling tears and the blows of the bludgeons and hammers!I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors?I ascend to the foretruck, I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest, We sail the arctic sea, it is plenty light enough, Through the clear atmosphere I stretch around on the wonderful beauty, The enormous masses of ice pass me and.
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 am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again.
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.Firm masculine colter it shall be you!24 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.Easily written loose-finger'd chords-I feel the thrum of your climax and close.I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well, The woodman that takes his axe and jug with him shall take me with him all day, The farm-boy ploughing in the field feels good at the sound of my voice, In vessels that.I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place.This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.Sleep-I and they keep guard all night, Not doubt, not decease shall dare to lay finger upon you, I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself, And when you rise in the morning you will find what I tell you.