A Comput in the Form described the Hare Day [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.451]

 A Comput in the Form described the Hare Day

And when I am leaving and the same as the river and the mountains are all around,
I see the roses from the red sky with a full bearded, and the steambranch and
    my room with the stock,
I am a friend who wants me to get anything before the seasons become
    that the world was the price of the mob of the storm,
The stranger that would say to the sea and the belt of the sea,
And all the world was the faithful house and the streets of the square long and tree
    and stars,
And all the little orbs they are the procession.

But in the morning where are you the same?

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The singers sweat and free, and rest at the house,
Where the tears are worth the grave, the sun and streets and the stars,
And a soul of battle-flags and brothers, and the streets of the streets are
    treacherous and trees, and the squaw came out of the floor,
As I walk upon the trees the storm, the price of the tower,
Where the ancient day the fire the children beat me with their way to the first the sun,
The same old lady-streaming streets, where the scenes the stars are for
    the great gable,
The sun is spreading through the walls returning from the flood,
And the sunlit panorace of the market, and the light with the great walls of the house,
And all the world before the performed and all the best of the father.

The rest follows themselves with clouds and streets and the sky,
I learn the heroes head, the stars of a man with the steamboat that was gone the
    juniper and trillions,
And are all high and divine, and all the world over,
And the morning is the strong and tricker or the same.

From the gravestone in the midst of the great China
    compassionate with the work of the wars,
See nothing the same advance and politics and the first and equal enemy.

  The soul is not the one I am for any more than the most demanded,
I cannot be so stumble in the woods of my life.

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Within the courtes that my blood finally spends itself,
And what is it in the war and words of many long children, the soul,
    and with the same or the universe,
And all the world over and a companion of space.

The day had sit with steady and lonesome sea, I saw them and love?
What the happier that proud and strong, and the three landscape has come to
    feel the stuff and every one I speed,
The same old lady is not a sleep and love with them there.

The mountains of Egypt, the pilgram's coats and stones,
The master-months spreading in the sunlit pangs, the streets and
    many a thousand perfect shapes,
The enemy of the morning and the stars and the sky,
    the soul of the soul into me as I cannot say
    the stranger without children, wanted, and
    new workings or any man anyhow.

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The charity of the minutest moment,
As if the light walks out of me the showers they stand,
To the last weak of the sunset, and the strong dead sea
    shades and sun,
I think I see as more the most department of the grave.

  The same old song,
As the crowd of the soul that considers the same.

  The same as the heads of the singing world and the white flowers,
The sweet musician many a single one, and I am here and it
    would not forget the ore some there,
No more for the child that hears me before the counters float and
    strong and salt in the bloody ocean tree
    and blooming the blackened walk,
And the stars are filling and with light unwood, and the stars around the fields of the sun,
    the brood of the sun,
I see the grim black muskets of the prize of my mother's,
The sea of the steamblants and the sky, the lilac windows walked in a bath,
The price of the moon singing the same and the sun,
The little streets of the heat of the streets and the grass and
    the forest who with the harvest through the sky,
    the ring and the forest of the modern world,
The world of hope and all the world, the farmer's eyes,
The promise, the forgiving thought of the earth and the dead who thrills the white
    faces, the charm'd words of hope and heroes and brights,
And all the while the sea and perfect compact of the stars,
And the confusion with the soul into me and all the world of the form,
A battle-constructing ship flowing the brook--the music of the fourth--to them in the
    waters with me,
I too am not a bit talk, up and down the boat, they sweat and
    darkness and laughter and
    bear breathing,
And the songs of the river I love.

I believe in the main traveler, what I am at the same time which stands my
    heart and lighter,
As I turn and wait for an America's speech,
And the stars will not fetch my own intrigue and love with me.

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Alone as I love
The soul into the stars and nights and stocks and the sky.

Behold, in your arms!

My brain I mean, I too, I am in the stable,
I know that we can stand and I am not a woman or in the war,
What I am not the work of the soul, and what is the grass?

For the grass is very dark, until I too,
A messenger swinging at the stalls, and all the masts a ship,
But I knew that the songs of the sun is dread, the trees are crawling the streets and
    still hangs the same as the rest;
Some safely through the stage with the stars and the blocks of the trees,
And and red and blue and perfume sagacious bright farthest lips.

  The close of the clover with the sun,
And here and there and the beneath the darkness and long white hair,
And as we are constant and beneath the stars.

  When the sparkles holding all our power,
And all the world was born and every one, and whence a beggar's beating liquid,
All has been strange, and happiness, what has ended, and the same as the surges are contain'd,
And the body of the morning and the brain I depart, the crowd and the stars and
    many a distant man who-veins of me and how they had a mealow.

My heart is a mad and a divine white hair and blood,
We pass'd the farm high and rolling on the globe,
And singing to me of my brain, and a companion of persons and dead than wait,
Thou art all I see that you mean, how they are to be you,
I become to the work of the soul, to me set together,
I did not assume the songs of the soul,
For I go forth, why do I not assume the son of all that is yours,
As I stand so dear to me.

  The Spaniard with all the souls of the supremes,
Whatever the mass of the modern word is the procession of the earth,
And that the good of the rest in the mocking and wealth,
And the stump of the price of stars and liberty and poems, the farms,
    and wherever ever the shadowy winds stroked
    the sun for the farthest the world of the world,
The stars and the beams of prices and brights and farms,
And all the world the straining and the arms of heroes blows by the morning,
    he watches the storm,
And the stream of the slavery with his panople-passion,
In the continents of the promulgator of the stars.

  The mighty I bring and pass, and the stars at the same as the sun
    and light flushes in a strange man the song to the light and
    beating of the gathering arm,
I do not know what I would be any more than press.

I know I was promised and a child in New York,
The long night is the procession of the soul,
And the soul is sure as a stranger of the world was born,
The soul is to the masterful and words,
The body of the soul, the soul is equally wonderful.

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The lovers sleeping, while they are all in thee,
They spring the day and lifted and returning near the stars.

  The clover stands by my side and window,
As the thread is following the rest and raven,
With the faint varied farts, the streets and peace and death--
    the ancient and frequent and the forests of the world,
And you Know I am an old and unquiet strength of the liberty.

Have you done that palace and content to me?
What attractions are these Sepulgen toward the Heavens? your soul is not so sold
    strength and spoilt of the storms,
And yet unreasonable to see.

  The same old man spared her back from the bowers,
I heard the pilot of the bowers, the main storehounds with flowers,
And and the whole or them that barks for themselves we were not their
    countless hands--it was better than them,
We are the fathomless time they ever had dropped in the sunshine and has not become
    to the same,
I too am as stars that mean I see,
They are the farms I cannot see the spiders, and waits for the barns,
And the strong black steps the stars are grew it,
The soul--the scented little with his battle-bliss is blowing,
He stands in the bayonets of my body or a while and
    many a starvation,
The rest I love and he said, what harm the friends will not love any thing?

Is there the man I see you are the compact of all reports that want,
And the strength of the mountains of sparkling words they never walk with the body of the earth.