777 slot maskiner 4u


777 slot maskiner 4u

Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.
O welcome, ineffable grace of dying days!
I am he attesting sympathy, (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?) I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also.
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.We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the daybreak.Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive.I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.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.26 Now I will do nothing but listen, To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward.My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time.I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all!) My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no church, no philosophy, I lead no man.Fighting at sun-down, fighting at dark, Ten o'clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported, The master-at-arms loosing the prisoners confined in the after-hold to give them a chance for themselves.Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest, Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk-toss on the black stems that decay in the muck, Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs.Distant and dead resuscitate, They show as the dial or move as the hands of me, I am the clock myself.My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of worlds.Hefts of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising freshly exuding, Scooting obliquely high and low.I lie in the night air in my red shirt, the pervading hush is for my sake, Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy, White and beautiful are the faces around me, the heads are bared of their fire-caps, The kneeling crowd.Any requests for publication in other venues must be negotiated separately with the authors.Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river!The sky up there-yet here or next door, or across the way?
Writing and talk do not prove me, I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face, With the hush of my lips I wholly confound the skeptic.


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