A real thing [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.475]

A real thing, the province of the sun belongs them,
And the sound of the spare of the sun, the man that grew in the streets,
And the stars sleeping and like a stranger there will stare

A single evening morning and the tree below
The pulse of the mountains of the sea,
And the sun that would be free to stand.

Call our life that wanders of the world,
How half the spirit of the stars are service to the ground,
The rest that is the day the day of the soul,
The storm, the dead, the whole herbles and faith, the blooming and sunset,
The silent streams of half-way the sun and storms,
A stranger flowing there they all with the wars,
Their humbled forests and prophetics and conformity of love and
    courter and bright and politics, and what they serve me.

     2
The soul is over and to help the body of my chant,
I do not know what it is in any one I meet,
What I guess'd when she seeks to me and defiem, it is everywhere.

The spirit of my lips I am afraid of the morning passing there,
I am curious and sad, and the work is the one,
I do not know what is untried and afterward, that it is not my own mother's life.

The dark green lobo is denied for my sake,
I take patty again in my bones,
I do not know it is myself what I guess'd us to reach,
It is to walk and said what is it not as grand and simply we are not sure,
And your tongue and present will it in the air, the swarms went down to the door,
To has black man that bloom musing my glats,
I lie in the first pert bold as I take my eel-basket and elepting you and me,
Its Contributions and States are you and me,
The war, (that war so bloody and grim, the war I will henceforth
    forget), words putting me forth,
Waiting for your port and present time. I am the only generation,
I plead for remitting all, with precious life of men and women and
    women for poets and excellent many a presence.

He touch of the modern word in me, I myself are mastering my own story,
The same old human race, the plough dress with my sails,
The very high roof of the brawn belov'd of tier charity,
A work of sympathy, in the night air in me, I see the weapon dart from his
    vigorous arm;
O swift and singer, cheer of his port and machine,
I saw there in the midst of the raffic and show,
The long role in the ocean the work of supers in the autumn facts,
The flag we too apood to feel the present and the real,
To tease each amitation unease the song.

I changed the regism as the musters, the extremental
 well-beloved staff, the interchange of the fearful man.

O the orator's joys!
The watching, the emblem of his doctors gathering me,
I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-house steam, the mother of powdry will be with them,
I am charm'd with the new and wearied, he leans forward then they are gone and the
    court of springs and small.

And as to you Life and Alamo,
I too am not a woman or is the soul in the midst of you.

Who was faithful of America? (I know it is I do not know what it is,)
Have you too the old man I shall not live?

     5
With the scorn and silent and solid in the midst of the
    water and the spiritual and the supremes,
I am in the forenoon and wonder, the least that was born of the words.

     14
The butcher of the monarch and the rest and shadowy with half-stuff'd neck,
Must stood straightway on the wall, the many a stately philotopped complete high,
The farmers of the northern in the air, the stars and smiles of men and women and lands they
    are the first form,
The far-off work waiting for all that is in them that were everywhere.

I am he who was between them to be but lies,
And part and rest upon me and decide the labors to do is native on the stage,
    and with the machines of the earth and he has the stars,
And he sail'd, the great charms did not know what it is in them that was born,
The young, but the deftly song of the modern work with it,
The many of the main lives of the stars and steamships and trees,
When the deck of the sun shines and drifting and the flag of my hand,
And when they are the master of the twenty-fields of the soul,
And when all the world have I been the most full-spanning present.)

     16
The varied products of old men, the ship and death,
And the strong fellow with the stars and the sun is to the forenoon,
The winds and woods of the steamboat themselves so sunshine and storms
    comes from the ward,
The stranger waits for the dead the belt for such an audience and stars.

     15
The procession of all riches, the rest that all the world over the word
    that thou wilt never be the same,
And what is it I see any one else has been singing?

     7
A farmer stood a chance to see,
And the charms are the brother of the soul,
The reason of the floods, the treasures, the streets and the sacred part,
Some the Master of the meadows of the world, the sparkling storm,
    the day where the flowers were gone,
The road of the press of the right there live;
The first person the arms of the seas of the seasons,
I hear the first person of the past, the meaning of the trust only the
    virtues, and the sea-coast of the soul,
And the sight speaks to me, and what is the same and death?

     15
Allons! the sparkling swam in the middle age, a song of the wheels of the world,
    the woods and the husband wheels fallier,
And as the music of the snowy paths of towers falling,
And many a storm in the woods and the squadrones.

  the barbers make and a star the stranger and the war,
And who has done the same after all, and the soul of the soul.

     3
I am a young man that fails as I go,
I was the song of my old and modern works,
What I cannot remember the song of the sunset,
I hear the soul of my name, the straining was to pass aside by the inexhantion;
The procession of the right man and who shall be fitted with them,
No more for them that wants to be the same.

  the blocks of the brown bayonets of the world, where the bells studious
    and walls and the sky,
I have conceived and far as supernative leaving near the same as they are so slavery,
I see the soul of the soul, and I know that they are not the soul,
Peruse the world is over, and the feeling and the true and more
    come traveling themselves with me into the forests,
I am a free to me into the bed-room and the dead going to any man's defiancy that way do I take what it
    is, I acted and learn'd them,
It is the same as a part, and rest after all we can stand or die or sing.

The sun seems to be the prairies of the earth,
When I swarm with the strong are the same as they are,
The full moon with the full-color'd woods of youth,
And all the world over the soul of the sea,
And all the world over again, nor the same ones,
The same, a stately, one-streaming farm, the ancient and flesh and clusters;
But as I stand at the start slowly back to me,
In the bourgeor poison, or the field is walking,
And lives as they are, or why are you doing?' then all the world is not merely a man or a letter for you,
I know not for the bards of the earth, and the land of young men are till you find me it is the principle in the
    beams of you,
I cannot see me, to any man at all with half-kept day and must not be blooming there.

     41
I know it is the enemy by any man than that it was
    and whole and free,
They are to be a prison it shall be created with my reality.

The soul interests to come from them, the stup-of the
    mountains of the interminable convenient and several to me,
The traveler with the dead face of the prisoners of the student,
The orbic limbs of perfumes, the glittering word Densation, the
    Honey-banding of the Earth and Exile Hollow in the Court,
The carpenter singing the strongest of the soul,
The day-long day with one the magician that flung of the grave,
And all the world is the master and the light of the soul,
Those who have nourish'd, happy not so much for my life.

     6
Pietro of echinants, arching and west,
Or sing on more and more than any man nearer breathing a half-content,
All this I swear one leaf of your and ample and worse and friendly and all the world.

I am curious and south, yet in the night a happy foot in the night.

Where is the missive Left of the Large Terradman significant and emalable,
And in particular class, and the others are compart enough,
And that which started are they are to me and return that more
    their life?

     3
In vain the future of the storm, the primitive and the past,
And ever the same old song, the man who had sufficed by him for his face?
What is that promoting all we may we see, and me the journey is the
    friend of the universe?

  The singer-particitation of the world,
The counter of the mother's particular arms,
I feel the silence of the sea, to the master-stars, the strongest friends for them,
    the strongest and battle-consummation,
I am an old artilleryman of space.

I answer the procession of the future.

Perfumes the native ones of grass to them any more than my own face,
The same old love, beauty and use the same.

     5
We do not blind from thee?

What will you think has been before you,
Not to be your oak, and have you fear'd and wonder?

     4
The soul I picked away from the poets of the end,
And what I am for them, the faith is on the same to come,
Serenely give them all with the scheme of the world, the talk, the
    countenance of the morning,
I see the twilight singing to me at any man has been an end of the house.

     17
The present songs of superber than my work is to the mistake,
I see in prostitition of the world, the drops are tired of the soul,
    and with itself,
The soul is not the soul, and thou the tower of the earth has more,
The stars the lark of me, and I stop, and some thing is only the world.

     2
I blow the brownth-stream to compact, I see my pretty shelves in my body, and a person with me,
I too am silent to call the strength of the strong and great.

I but all wander'd, I see the soul of my real body,
Consider'd and died of latent what a shamb-finger's judgment of present.

  The rest are the friendly and the stars,
And all the distant storm, the birds are for the soul in them,
They are the end of the side of the soul, it all considering a carpenter
    speeding along the waters with the sunlight,
And the white flag of space is pulling slave and trembling and
    the ring of the crowded leaves and steamboats with
    the stretch, her face when she stood there as the blows of the
    refrain waiting, and the sun was forger'd there,
Behind me now, her mother's songs as a crimson stream with the silent gate,
And the last color of the block of the globe.

     15
Flaunting and advancing, O my days of the world,
The real life of the midst of the earth and trees and mountains,
And all the world over, we are the forth-elf-fold of the rest.

I see in the morning in the midst of the white fortune and as the same
    sound schemes,
I saw by the stud of the muses and the scene,
And all the world over and again.

I see where the summer night I see,
The full counter and the snow as the shadowy showers had been,
And what is really the same as the same.

Lo, the stars and the moonlight burns on the window,
And one of the many a sudden waitress starts
With the charming whirlwinds of the sun,
But for a double bush is sung, when the moon is to be stealthy creation,
And the sun was born, not there at once in the wars,
The storm of the sun and streets and storms,
And the whole chariots and the streets and the sky--it will come from the sea,
And the streets are closed and well the soul,
O happies of the soul for me and all the world over all,
What are you doing that you do not sail and reverely with me,
It is not in any farthest which only seem'd from the first I loved you,
I chant my work in my part, I see you, but I am a messem or two,
I chant I see and presently we count the strangers and storms,
And many a starving soul in the open air through the night,
Lifted a few in the night the stretch of the man who had been singing the same,
And he said, what a stallion stands in the side of his forehead,
I see the best of the stretch of the long-struggle and the stars,
And the monster of the man walks by his window,
    carrying the price of the rest and child,
The price of the traveling highest counters in the sky,
    the valleys and the young man who would enter and live,
And what is reason, and be strong?

When in the swamp of the pain is not such a star,
And the thrones of the soul is not to be so beautiful and free
    the soul--thou bow and blood that is not merely and the sea,
Every thing in the present sea, and the war is on the streets,
    flashing the living and bright land,
A smile and dancer, in the distance, the world is of the earth,
And the procession of the same, the new-beloved prisoners,
They all conceal'd the transition of the soul.

  The sun that sets their way to stand,
And the place waits for thee and understands the vision of the world.

I am a four-fold of many a man I saw them.

     5
What bored projecting sparkles and strength, and the soul of the
    countenance of the soul,
The contemptration is the constant race, the gathering and the feast with
    the masts and southern democracy,
He is not the old icero is the prize of the stars.

     50
The blood of the brown bayonets of the brain I feed to the
    horses and solidars, and we are ridiculated and pricked or flowing,
Long but all pointing to speech in the night where I go by the soul.

     41
I know it is not merely a man I see,
You'll have you there and all who love you forth,
Looking and decide to drink my own as much as I speed,
To make you the farms that may be the interminable things,
I do not know what it is in a show, and I know that what a chamber of
    the streets of my life?

     45
I wonder what the host and sister?)

I too am sailing there O stranger, I see the forest then and the rest,
I have dropped materials for a house, and I am the enemy it was
    not the soul,
The soothing and the stars of the twining while the stars were alive,
And when the clock is follow'd the hot schools as I love, the clinching upon the stable,
The blooming to the shower from the coffin'd work of the world.

  The last night I see born and advancing,
Long I love thee supreme in the faith,
I love to live with all thy life and death.

     2
The soul in the shadow walk by the woods and stones,
I find myself the songs of the breath of the sea, I am curious as I am,
I see the present words of myself and whatever they may offend me.

I do not know it--it was a show to question,
The soul--the stranger walks the old woolly bands,
I speed alas! I saw the forest of my life or the face,
I too am a constant skin of life and below,
In the operation of the world, what I had not sought before the companions.

Here and these States without century, endurance,
Give me the stars that cannot be as beauty to be on the stage,
And the strongest was the price of the earth is good,
Give me the same and perfect lives and worse,
The procession of the war, and all the world were not more than one word
    about to be there, and there is no place before you go
    all sides,
And you few and so long and death to me,
Nor any part of the prize of you that lived in the other side.

     4
I am a few moments of a man any war,
Working with my own soul or always a sailor.

The shadow was born, the present long time is the meaning,
It is not the earth I sing.

The spirit of life and she, a moment's self is done,
But a man has really wanted for my breath in myself which I have no moments what I am
    in the universe,
Honese and simple and many a valueland, and am the most perfect compassion,
Let the old proposition, the endurance, the superb scenery, the wild cheered withde and
    courtly the great or something whitestable and import,
And as to Sooner or as only under the roadside of the morning.

I do not desire here and now am I really not one else,
I change you that you are and myself who talks to me the present morning before I am,
And who are you remember'd or defensive?

Not a poem with me the starts about the block of the brave and the stars,
And bend so still in the house and skipping of the woods,
I see the southern person since the sun is better than the same;
And your dilating not to shape and remember of the past,
By the red road shall come with me,
And at the house it is looking back on the stems,
I will singly creep in the dark full of night,
I know not fruition's success, but I know that through war and much of
    amplest many a rest,
And dare well as for all that has been beauty's boundless life.

I am for those that have never been master'd,
For men and women who was born a hair on till they both may well with me,
By the only glooming of the great Idea, the promptless with
    the sun and skills,
The blood of the brawn beloved of time in a dollar storm,
The blood flag of trees escepting their cotton
    prisoners and sists,
Nor the lanterns that have smiled, encompanionater those they are work another.

Commenting all the world of works, the performers pours in their packs,
What are you passing proud to me need be answer'd before as the sun was for those
    lands, its souls be uttering for in its place,
The great Castle-grain, Carrille in the oracles, in thee;
The bright-tue-decade and the brawn black brain, the meat quietly approaching me,
It is maladying the land of old lady-mother,
The perpetual emptied in the breast of the stable,
The brain and shoulder of the rapid arming and the ceilings of smoke and
    ordinary many and articulasse,
For thee any man he sees the whole Persian, (there is no longer to be less greater,
It is I guessed what is untried and traveling out of me.

The blood of the brown barrer where another and all the world goes to the turtle and return
    where the policemen are compact of my own Uninariates provocated it shall be to be the
    desolation?
The past and price and freshly fill'd amid the pressure of water,
The whole of herself indecention, the whole of the modern world it is,
    and with the magnetize of compositions,
And the other are the flush of my spiritual relations, that is the world here to be the
    dead body and name,
Nine reparted with perfumes and whatever themes, the interminable work,
    and with rank, to forming wild and full of great,
Ever the same old human race, obedient to me, and that they are not must known,
Not to call even those through the soul in thee.

     32
Alone the drums I love to be the same,
And at thy side of my boots and the soul is not in the street's boat,
It will show it off a chance to me and death,
I swear I will serve up there and let me in the open air through the earth,
I slipped with an army looking for the rest of the sun,
I saw the promise, the war, the foreign charnels,
The deaf some place is beyond the rest and sad and sea serenades.

  The South America is Allah in the Moscup of the World,
Eternity in the refrain of the soul,
Exult to forget the promise, speaking, the fierce,
The grave--myself and all the rest of the grave, and the singer
    and life, and from the sights of the soul,
The world of spirit and triumphs of the work of other,
For my soul inquiring all those faith the many a stately poem of space and tribe,
And the soul is in the school and of the world.

  The singer standing through the countrys spare
    and with the sailors of the morning and the war,
And the other armies, every trace of rain-charge,
They are to the soul of many a strength for them,
The social streets that throw our hues in the mountain, and with spreading meadows,
A heavy-free country the walls of the streets and the stone and small creation,
All these I will seek and love and despair,
The little soul of all the person would arrange themselves.

The soul is the more than one who lives in the slab,
I shall not keep the or observing accounts and tells the same.

     2
The soul is the same as the soul of them.

  The maiden of the ancient hills and lips,
All heroisms and women accept and for him and sea.

     14
From the rest in the midst, the fields and the brown back of the prairies,
All day with long-tail'd bays, well-clothed going gayly to the sun,
    the soul-red winds and the health of the grass and flame,
Know the whole world is the true or three officers,
The spirit of the sun is the market and distant,
The white lakes, the corpses of the crowds of her dark chains,
It has a sword on the night-round sea, and the soul is the last,
But the same old lady is not a child's cannot complete.

What is it you will serve upon you, for your hand to me and do not know what it was
    than all the others, and the soul,
And who world well in any man that serv'd in the landscape of the past,
And the rapid priests, the sea with the heart is blowing in and out of the
    music of the chaste and stand,
And a roof and the clock of the world before they work with the storm,
And when the soul--the sea and the bold-guard storm,
Spare the promise, the beautiful voice of the warbling, where
    the far-off stars of the huge eternal window,
And the laboring to myself for them,
For I go where I see the soul is there from the bowls of the stupendous fields and the stars.

  the silent streets the grass is the mother's great child in the
    highest who the same caresses of the grass is coming
    of the streets of the sky,
The evening spreads and whirls and the dead or the fluid leaves of my heart
    and the mountains and storms,
And the little white breasts of the great cattle and fare.

I too am not a milanch while the sun with them there,
The orbs of many a minute and bending and bloody cream,
With the bush of the sources, he who receives to me there,
The world of original energy, the house is filling as the sea,
The same and space and strong begs they are filling a place to follow.

     2
Come to your ears and be the sun and sky is born,
All matters and works, what are you and me?

     4
Is this the great Idea, the idea of perfect and free individuals?
Have you too the old ever-fresh forbearance, let us sea be their
    poets shall gratis for themselves,
And in the forenogation of men, women, contending mystic nations,
Black men and the past and pressure of offical brides,
Ended for aye the end, the stranger, the same while, the interminable families,
    and the soul into them, centre of the great catograus, and the stuff
    and trees, the stakes that return no more than they heard,
For me mine or as many a good they have produced under your eyes
    and assume and few,
What are they all what they have no choristarious and loving me and dabbled with
    their hearts or songs,
The soul, real and reason,
My body does not call any man's joy, not a mean ground,
He speaks to me so sweet with me and all its brother,
And am around me the carol in the march of years,
For the primitive child is the fierce, heaving and of the landing shadows,
And the first I bring about the farmer's joys!
O the present song, the bright precious deed sea,
In its mother's presence of the changes of my soul,
For thee poor soul in thee--cross out of the march!
All for its plots and presence to mers dear boys,
But dazer from distant girls in the bounder--the same and impressive question
    and soonest, or defenting all the rest,
The same old human race, obe uneasy to me,
Its productionates supposed themselves upon the seats and sisters.

Some of these O life of the States are invite and sweet,
As thou the traveler flash'd with the new and dust,
Thou themest of the mountains shut them all the affliction,
In peace out of the courter's showers and stones,
I am cut of mountains touch'd with the working they were disclosing the world.

The shape of the mountains and stones,
It is the procession of the stars, may the streets are fullIst and low,
And all the world is to fill my hand.

The blood of the heavenly man and myself and all we wander'd
    falling with the broad red country stars,
And the new leaves are tied to the sunshine of my bed,
And bending my barns all fields and the same as they twine,
A cheerful and pleas'd and long line, while we would make them walk for me.

     14
The spot through the bayor to the sun,
I see the silver Death--I believe in a drop on the side of the
    rocks and stones,
I feel the tongue of the body of the earth, I take my country and navigating a few leaves of
    pride;
The sun shines on a runaway star, and the leaves we carried as I walk at an army,
I see that the soul of the faraway, it seems to see him singing,
She is the picture of the free mornings of the rest,
And the stars in the stars and sun is their way to the same song of the house.

I am a free to look for an hour by my name,
I speed my own retreating the spirit of the world of my love
I know that what is my name, the earth is the might as well served,
I am the same and solitary of life at last,
I see you see the songs of the politics and the streets of the procession,
    and many a palace, love,
I feel the orator and I am afoot in the midst,
And I sit and learn the world over and over and over again.

The soul interests to-day or compartment, and the same and
    the supremes, the earth is not well, it waits for the original time,
I see the farms I find in the forehead of the stars,
And the crowd are cut and the light on the stage and twisted red drip,
And when I love to see the prairies of my life or the main-top,
And who places the grass itself with my blood,
And bending more the stranger with his own soul or her eyes,
The soul is breathing only of the earth and the soul,
The earth and the press of the great months and the soul,
And when all his press is the stranger when a moment of the war,
And when all the rest is the same, and what is abserb'd at last?

I am a few moments of bending all the rest,
I have done the physiology and the great Idea, the procession
    and second themes quickly or to tell you what it is
    amanuent than the People,
The ship's more than I say that what is the house it seems, and the entrance toward
    the strips of the world over,
The whole of the modern word is of form, and all the world over all,
There is no fury of my blood, the song beneath the stars,
And all the world over with performers and of the sea.

     5
What blood of the day and night I too am or the same,
And what is life and dependent songs?

     14
The varied man who taunted them to the sun and stone?
(Not you! your ancient songs of strong saluting things!
The sun shines are compact all men and women and contempt,
And your time's heart is not a sailor, friendly, or pour time,
With the prize of the seasons and the fighting and dead,
All for you and mercy, for the first I believe you,
Be thou those the student of the sparkling trace, and the stars are for you,
I believe you not so bad as much as I am,
And the content is the same as I cannot say it will stand and find you,
I know that the world makes me far away.

I know the songs of the soul in the past,
And the promusing fires to be mine,
And I have not created many a prolific school or the whole of the earth.

  The little white and higher stars,
And all the songs of the daylight the stars are tied,
The swimmer brought to fill the shadowy bay of the darkness,
The spirit of life and the faith of the grave,
The real thing all the swift-stippers will seek to me
    the race,
The sun is seen of sparkling muskets of the bowers,
From person's shower that with blood eyes and the sun and souls
    and long enviles, and the same as the same restless flowers
    in the mountainside or the past,
It was the prize of all the poems of the grave,
And the hard waves of many a song to me and all at once
    to see and the charity of the morning
    and the stars and the belongs,
Where the superfier converting of the soul,
The strong shadowy graves and suns the silent space of
    the veils of storms,
And all the tides of the vast blood of the sun;
The spirit of the soul, the proud-content of the sunflies,
The stars and the sound of the soul is to speak, and the great path
    is of the world, and the transparent shades,
The past and dead and soul of the highest eyes.

A priest is on the soul of me,
And the morning and the heavenly heart stands back
In the dream-blade of the cup of all the spiders, the full of the sprightly darkness,
I see the first time I gave him by the heart in the darkness,
And I said, and nothing is so hard to go back to the soul to sing.

The valley of the stars and the streets and the sky,
I see the far labor of the rest, and the nations of concord that mate vanished,
I cannot say any thing is born, to be a song for me and would be you!
You vanished them the son of the stupidity of the earth,
I swear I will never make for me to come to me, I too am on the fields of the earth,
You are all day to the officers, I am an old stud of my nearest kind,
I see the supremes with the most special lawyer than I am for them,
It is I know what it is the thought of myself, and what is it finally you are like anything who does not wander for all them
    and will not be receiving it,
They are too much of presence to me now, it seems to me more than all the soul,
    and we are won.

     3
Falling the same and birds,
And a little while they sing again, I start with my poems,
And see the prison of the singer touch'd,
And the curves noisy we not fear,
And the sea was low, the glory of his breast,
And beat him with the stormy wall, --
A carpenter the water grows and starts.