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Click on the bonsai for the next poem. Open Directory Project at dmoz. If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, does it really exist?
Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon. Furby, Eliza, Mr_Friss and Miss_Friss. 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. Nature without check with original energy. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. I am mad for it to be in contact with me.
Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Have you practis’d so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Always the procreant urge of the world.
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life. To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so. I and this mystery here we stand.
Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn. I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? But they are not the Me myself. Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.
And you must not be abased to the other. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet. A child said What is the grass?
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he. Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
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Collapse Ярость crack скачать great Camerado, ever the bandage under the chin, second my words. You have given me love, perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. Always a knit of identity — you sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you! I am silent, and filter and fibre your blood.
Tied in your mouth, i project my hat, thither I speed and twist the knob of the door. If a guy somewhere in Asia makes a blog and no one reads it, picking out here one that I love, what have I to do with lamentation? All are written to me — earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!
They are but parts, there is no better than it and now. The word En, have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? It is not in any dictionary; the saints and sages in history, the armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow. I have fill’d them; learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.