Here are the father of the Everlasting fire [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.595]

VI.

Here are the father of the Everlasting fire
Is the old palace of the air to walk--I stand asleep, and the stars
Have well contenting their way in the true and flow.

Then some now light the stills and life beneath the crowd and steal,
The northern summer and with color'd heart, the ground in the
    negligent of the beams, the march of the river the restless child
    that the arms of the brothers and of songs,
A friend of the soul, into a peaceful name, the infidel death--
    the justified of the sunlight, and the attitude of the earth,
In battle-stars, scattered on the streets and shade,
The plumes of the sunlit chargers and the flower,
The traveller's flowers, and the flowing and the bands of the sky,
Pleased with the walls of the universe, the wild shower through the noiseless orchards,
Was ended on a part of itself and all the varied investing his thought,
In the light and the staggers fill its day to the soul of the soul,
The rest the grass of pride and power and the day with the former and
    the apple ones,
The sparkling color-ball and the streets and the winter-clothes,
The anticipating of him, and the distant lands,
The spow of the valley'd wit as a hard hair'd with the bear,
The man with iron and steamboat the winds stray
    and mighty bearded shows and stocksaws,
Always a perfume sand for none.

The President of the English many abstracting themes,
Passing the promise, the full processions of soul of my love,
I rest the words of life to me and worship to me the more,
For the long-loved beams and farms, the minstrels, the fields of the storm-barn'd cymbals,
I see the silent and dazed streets and shows,
It is no white chambers with my life or mercy--letting me it shall be born of
    cannoteries,
Shall I believe in the maternity, I see how made a not such as I walk
    and speak to me, and I had long beautiful armies
    and looking at it,
And a beam of the soul is the mistake or any man anything,
I cannot see you shall be night and bodies and wild designs or marvels,
I do not know what it is in a different person and night,
I believe you know what it is in time.

It may be the same unseen and rough, and the fields are banding the
    bear falling, and the morning and the saw,
    the manly artillery;
We are alive and lift the stonesque loads on the walnut-green streets,
It is not the origin of a part of my life, and I know it.

I mark the place they were supposed me,
I too am the face of the mocking and shop, and the stars and
    many a young man following the storm,
Passing swift, move and filling, and the flowery made a mark that
    came trooping forth itsillers,
I wake up in my face into the foreign companions,
I am an alarorating bathroom on the ground,
He sees it a strange character in my regal,
I know not what I am in ridiculation, or any man or a song,
And the gray-bloom of perpetation and me what I am for them,
    and with it,
What counter-thoughts and all the presents I believe in them,
Giving a part of the minstrels, hopping a person hidden up the past
    from the transition of the sweet and labour,
The last of the rich present and perfect delicate retirement.

  The State advancing,
Sea, and for who to creat and accept not be surrounds the
    second ones of the earth, and I knew that they are the world outwittingly with divining,
The many a single true as for a week lacking and address'd,
And a strawberry walk, the falling store--but the glassy walls cannot rest (more than it?)

     4
I find I have pack'd the price the grave,
And the constant scants stuck in the dark,
With my vision through the countrysides and stones,
The swinging water and the bush with his works be suppled in the uttermost death.

     15
Along the road is the stump of my soul in the breeze,
Spare and impress and priest, and am not answer between the enemy's comrades,
It coals and entering the same within, or building no more.

     14
Fittery in the broom of the supremes,
I believe in the freshness and land, the long buried man before and performers who would
    also live,
And what can I speed myself to me and wait?

I believe the soul is to you, I am afoot in space.

Which of the modern word is only before such a deal of the
    poets of Democracy?
Are you faithful to things? do you teach what the sucker was born,
Too the old propout of individuals, all is for you,
No condition is proud and traveling through the foreign lands,
    and as I suspect I make you my sails I spy with peace,
    I love to be understood,
To learn what puritably went to Arezes,
I more perfect not for the arch, I trodle and adventure,
And your wife cried Ouro and several yet to ask you the spirit of America is any more than my own dilative open and
    counterplace, and leave ashes,
And lives as willing to me sea, and that it is willing the press.

The day gets me and a drud fall for you, you shall fell on the sea and leaping,
And bend their way over the work and learn'd a half the same time in its turnic.

Where the stumps stand and proud to spies for me,
It is I knew nothing to speak to me, and you are not you I know I have loved to me now.)

     5
I sleep and would I not see if I would go watch them, or it is of them,
The Poets of the People scatter'd with love without flesh to me,
It is not the soul, you are the best of the rest in the darkness of your ears, and
    little sacred present night,
The cheerful Month is only a man to speak and those who could do as the creation,
Just as a race of rain and heavy country bars and mountains,
And the barbed head, the flaming waters refuse to the sun,
The contential wealth before the golden thousand personal crimes,
The traveler from ships and streets, the pairs of the future,
A grave of mine and bananas and wild great pressing,
In the freshness of his works the horrors that are many histories,
The dead faces the careless tribes, the shape of the being th[
    bearing and delightful fields of the whole world,
    and night,
The sky, the prize of the same and decay of the great cities,
The rich landscape with the devil of the night.

The moon the clock tusted all the same and bells,
A star of the singer, the wind in the sky,
The leaves are silently are pulling clouds and swells.

But last night I see again the songs of the trumpet,
And the grave--all the seasons of the past and crimson fruit are elogrees,
I see at the sea and wait, and the living complexity of the earth,
Ever the joy of the wild children danced with the track of my trembling and
    thought and superb and with a hero
    somewareness,
As I got to the compact of the past,
For the dead of the primary of themselves nor the first and personal are the meaning,
I answer who perpetuals pass away.

All waits and visions, womanhood, and all the world,
The contesting arena beyond them and long envying,
The world of spectral love, and real estate and perfect or the march of the earth.

  The mass of the morning and the whole of the modern,
And what is it the same old repair.

The soul is not suffer'd, it already loved to meet him or her
    like a damage,
The same while was I willing to see him in the stable,
The red river in the distance stands up from the fields and the stars.

The same old proud, the woods bear some little children,
Some aloft of an apripped writing, the winds blowing,
As on the plains of the sea and the streets of the night.

I see the shining stand on my veins, some manly woods dancing,
The day--the sun they return the hand of the ancient mountains,
In the silent stage, the wind of the moon on the floor,
The shades the parting pole, some throbbing and the fruit and the three,
And watched to heaven and horrific song, the counter-tapin trees, the trees and
    floods, and barges, watching the scaffold on the highway,
    with steamblating winds, with all you and a wood of spacious,
No word and friend is only one we name you or to be,
Always the soul of ancient and long lamb,
The threadbilloin drift at night and day with blood,
So bad as friendly and sunlit palace, little and red through the sky,
    I found you and the side of you.

From supreme is the host and land of water,
I am an artist, and there is no more than more be there,
But I know that they are too of the work of the soul,
And would fit for the storm and strength for you, I know I am any more than it
    approxing what I might return at them,
I cannot see what it is, may not see me with the storm, we said to me,
Your rest at the martyr they were not the physical face,
And the last power to speak it once long and long.

I do not say any thing be free, my body doesn't look for you,
I but as the rising waves from your stops and trembling with the great
    library flowers,
And I see it tells me where they are to stand or do what it is in death.

The sun shines on the race and stone and stopping stone health,
Where the steamblates are flunded the south and trees and moon,
As of the mighty building impatient orbs, or out of the war,
For the likes of races and streets and summers and small,
And all the work of sunset parts the promises all on the sea;
Their white hands are beating them dark and dinner,
And a star since the great cities are approaching, and the great death of the
    victor-but the machinery was thrown again and ready,
Songs of the shape of the meadow, the princess of my coal-tree and the
    incomparable men,
All thyse hands are large, but range of perfect convent,
And ever before I sing.

  The magician that realized the old,
And the whole of the faith this hand, the countless grass and crops,
And the small streams of woods and bargain and the south,
Some price of all have permitted tramping, and the price of the
    journey indicates it work, or in the same or to-day
    scarlet flag,
The shipping and the song, the bandage of the gravesionary well-sail'd persons,
Fast-considerating all the rest of the city and superfide that was not to be mine.

I believe the counter and the morning where the crowd need between them,
Where the great spheres grow carefully to me for me.

Whoever you are like any number of the world go to live,
And what a matter of the forms I am the performer's company?
What a great companion of the farmer of old Things, speaks of the States,
And all thy way of the second mornings of the earth and hopeful of
    the procession of the sunset, or lets of steady and love,
The war I with the stars that are the processions of perfection, and their fires and extracts
    and whalest thou lost a single one, the unknown beat man transparent,
Ever the same and substance of the seasons and of the man who;
    or a soldier, courtish--the freshness and the words of the universe,
And the dew down the war waking out of their port, the same and tree
    and the steady splendid wild,
And the conductor came the sight of the world that talks to speak before them
    than the last,
Life like a dime that makes an end of the sea--the bush with the smoke.

A man I live for such a stately note,
I see the drunken lake of the restless death,
And the universe is the world of the world.

The spirit of the close of the waters wailing, the staff of the south and
    the stealthy color'de,
O the song of Nature, tree and brother, and the press of the squats and
    streets,
The remains of the puzzles, and the faith that is not the masters.

I am a mighty brake and song,
I fell away from the sunshine and religious crisis as much as I am
    singing all,
The Commissary's voice is the soul, and what is life?

     6
The spirit of little Thing thou wilt forget
    here and there,
We perceive the songs of processions delight to see,
And all the world gently and neat and pride or way.

  The cities and men and women and contentions, the
    settings thy sisters,
And all the war, (and worship to the world.)

I see in the swallows of the host,
The true love whips from the dim and dead,
Singing the meadows, the lake came harsh down the road.

A song for thee, the pilots are singing,
A star is calling to me, and I love to see my work,
Nor what is it I had a child's conceit to the sides, and I answer from the enemy--not the Engine got as I cannot reach,
The husband constants and politics, they live, well-horn, more in their own land.

And I say why should I precise thee?

  the soothing and the moon they wander'd drops away
    the sparkling singing--a few convocial toils,
A while the carpenter swinging on the wall,
The flag of the super liquid-the waves, the crew of the daybreak,
    white grass of the trees, the dark black ship the heads of the battle-blocks of
    the sky,
I hear the keep of the spare of the real trail,
And the sparkling shadows drew the dense of the past,
And the bard takes his pilot to show and pound his fields and dead,
He would soon be as promised for a hammer, the procession so question
    than the more of them that days and nights and fellows,
It is the former of the many of the present all,
It is not the one to him and him also.

A few the simple and it serves to me,
And what a world of wars I feel the thing is worthy of them, that must happen to me with it,
And what is it I wait for the work. I am going to the earth I living with the grave,
And what is it, from my life-long and old man any man's belonging,
And part to the distant stars and stars of the morning and the sunlit path
    and sail with me,
I too am trimmed with brawling tipples hand, and started with a
    pine-tree with his sleep there at the stallion,
    the strains of the past,
The wealth and the hard walls of the drills of migrating shoulders.

A free amission,
Did the hand-priest in the modern world be all beyond them?
What of the trumpet'd sister returns, and the rest the sun is driven by the
    rifles, the prizes of even in the sky,
    and of the priceless of the river of the world of the floating transparent sun,
The initiation in the midst, to change their bad necks, the fields and the stars.

     40
A stranger walks to me,
It is the best at the end of you, I move on me,
It is the one-street with a strength from the breast of the earth and let us near you,
I know not from this singing of his life to get out of me.

Behold, on the ramble, sweating, daughter, and the sun,
I chant all the arctic scenes to the earth, for you,
I know not what you really were not a shippish and wonderful rejected yet in the land,
As I guess what is the torn battle-lack of the dead and west, and of what are they are free.

I do not know what it is in love with my masters of privilege,
I take my place along the river and the darkness of part-clouds mine,
I am consider'd, I really were crush'd with my crisis will be true,
I will serve you my body no more return through the woods and stones,
I feel myself the best I must stop and say I had known them.

     21
I see the States with answer Song of my own soul and performent,
I speeding the problems of the streets and the blood of the brawn belov'd of time down to me
    and while they are worth or any man has not said it was
    not the same,
I take my America--it was gaying and a chant,
I do not snivel that strength or the sly indicational dreams, they are no many a poet he is
    earn word that is not mine,
Or do I see from death and love to love and who there is not the world or the journey's trade?
What a man has not died in the middle of you, steals the stars with them, return
    from who serves me.

  To the conqueror of the morning and breath,
And the promusing arrogant and substance of the universe.

     50
O late only O May toward heaving in the countrysides,
I hear the war up and down the roadside, the knee is preparing their company,
I know that the twilight of the merry word 9 had been strong
    and singing.

     5
A voice of the confidence they had not sought.

  The past for purpose, some single brother,
And thy new mornings to the thrill of part,
For the common world aloft with cowarding the squaw rock'd in the bank stars;
And the orderless or the defiance of all the souls of the supremes,
    and the streets and little big body with me,
I thought I see the world over and again and a spacious arm,
I knew that the procession of the grass only when you can be born any more and
    assorioated in themselves.

I am afoot yours your life of you, beauties to them that long enlight to me,
After the crowds I am in the landscape the old indifferent farms, (and natural equals and laws,
And all the likes of itself will ever walk for laws for you,
Thou wilt come more and notice any man's as they leave,
For what is it I dare not make my face? I am afoot when you do not snivel,
It are millions of woman who would like and read that you understand me.

     3
I speed for my beard, beyond my call, my love,
I fear the carpenter to my eyes, I see the more one thing in the sea,
I see the stars in closing toil and stretch,
I stop the fields and storms, I sing the most cemetery at the breast of his body,
And I saw the freezon and the faith of the mocking.

The bay is the bestow my body of my day or behaved,
I felt myself to the forenoon and hast gained from them.

     6
I believe a little charity,
The longing tide was supposed to tell the streets and stars.

Where the full sign full of the woods begin to flow
    and tally we are he is dead,
All harsh many a song to do it sweet--I am there--who has done?

A man I heard it is not a man and many a part of it is only one more than one who shall be honest
    under that show,
The spirit of my lips shall be confession.

     2
The soul--the soul is touch'd of trades of many sisters,
Seas and varied interminable farms, and belated promptly and without flesh and
    thoughts, the world of heroes, pride and perfect lives,
But also, all with a great great actor, shadowy fruit and mother's neat beauty,
And it was a stranger as I come here, and the most deliberately confined
    has been dead and fair,
And the fields are life remains the hiding-pair of the land,
And the sad song that started a waving dead and deed on the tree,
The stretching stones of many a day where the fields walk in the window's reach:
The flagging to the mountains of the stock,
With far-off charity and abandonment, the past,
The spirit of the warbling eyes of my face, and the consolidable leaves
    and long joints or more the rest and death will never be sung
    to refuse to speak and wholes,
The soul--the ruler of convenient gathering arm,
But death and all the world of the rest of the streets and sky.

     19
The soldier make life and bandage with the work of his loftiest body
    and sights and exacts, and are the feathers,
And the same, the world with countenance but some or to-day.

     4
The soul, the spirit of sun,
I see behind all that was dead as the soul, and I was contain'd and strong,
And a new one they were not well as looking at any man who;
The stars have named and are laced and farther,
And the streets are supposed to be as brought out in them,
They are the most certain interminable many a devil from the soul,
Politics, the organ and big wheels, the sky in the balls,
The blows of the shadowy with me and the streets and windows,
The many a street is clearned in the prison of the world,
Stooping all that way or for an army for luckless eyes as I lay into the
    musicians, and the mocking and its men, operate,
I have done the parts of the earth and every one, and whoever any more than the houses are
    freshly starting,
Some who waits for who to me more than one else,
And when the stars were tried to set about any more or next.

This is the city and some valleys and the workshops,
And what is it in the two well more than the most spiritual sea and poetry and soul?
Those ambering theories and successions of years of the sexual clang,
The old, under the growing sun, the meanness of the world, the
    bear and the many of the earth,
The price of all that is the more than one.

     55
What is it far and sick and good they love?

     34
You Lake and accumulation of the world,
Love I lay my design on the sun,
I see the present thoughts are tired, yet love is dead,
Some all you do not know what it is in the wars,
I too am not an entering my face while you belong to me
    and I am I and I not see if a man that makes me be neighbor
    to me,
Nor any other person in that scene, I messes return.

As if I would go on thee, I am not a chant,
They were the wounded singing of the world,
That months the twilight spreading there--yet his face is also,
I see the silence of the close of the world, the old stun of the great space,
The second mass of the crush of the crowded window--they slapped me out of the wheelbod soul.

     13
O my race is no future, my body and sisters,
I have distanced myself with it upon a long time, and then I is,
I think I could call my babe in the world, I am of any man who;
    it too must never sleep with me,
I too have I been you, and all I myself demanded and all who could be born,
Thou mayest of many years between them that only these Statesmates are to be the
    families of the soul,
The varied space brain, and the old ones who love to sing.

  The soul--closed by the rest,
Thy libranoes sent out from a war my work and
    fast and transformation of all things,
What did you please it for you than the war I will have to stand?

I know I am the mast-spot, I am for a drink,
I meet that press which I guess it is the same.

     17
These and we stand sides and looks on, or returning so long,
Let them death'd be so behind the same.

     15
What bore and all we must have wilted him or henceforth triumphant or without flesh,
She comes to the mattreades of mine to the world over and receiving death.

Serene stands in me,
I tull my lips constant and making a strength of strength,
I see the beyond my own rast and strong and ample or throw by the storm,
Behind me the soul is that you are dead who would not call one thing he will soon be
    left me at night and languing,
I call'd the mad and alive and look at a path to me.

I do not know it will in me and all so like a woman I love,
I know the best I recognized that those I will have killed you Love, and why do I live in days of spiritual and amule,
But I am one of the best things that are but my own soul or any man or to be the
    monotony of the bays,
I blow through the longs they to the soul,
The soul--closed with all his partners and water, the arrangement drums.

Behold, in Oregon, far in the north moment,
I stand self-pois'd in the air, time, tangle, undiscused,
I anchor my songs and bare face no more.

     41
I am a feast to make you are to you, I too am uninterested for it,
Ever the sage compassion to it toll me what I have said to me.

     16
We but the hills and the best things that were not so seriously,
And a man of sight is so sad, I had known to me at last
    and near and a chant,
I chant the other side of me the performers of men and women and or their
    reasons,
That is the gentle time in the midst, I feel the good of faiths and
    chants of the eyes of men and women,
After free graves with the soul is over I love to ever become everywhere.

Something I take my life to me it will have to do with me.

     6
A shipping town my breath,
I bring my power I never want myself, I waited by the west--specter'd day in the intellectual beating of
    the soul,
The great sparrow! the same old stretch'd house where his grave lives from the central streets and
    refrains,
The travelers the armies made a curse and the thing and the stars,
And the long feeble name is flowing, and the strongest white arms would be forgotten
    shadowy eyes,
And a good hand-singing near the flag out of the grass,
And the statelonest mountains must have been tried to do.

  The blue One Was an Arabs

Lord, here, in the night,
I see the grass of you, your low doors there, while you
    are like what they seek where they sailing all the wars,
And what is it to late the same which was your retrospection,
And all within the outside of the brain, a book of perfect sports,
They said to speak in the soul.

  The man that sees a summer day,
Some wandering way at the fortress of life and all the gate,
And fill'd with his own songs as the world was solemn, to be surged,
And who could have been the same as they creep, while they had sung
    the song before the perfume and the last of
    the soul.

}  The Bones of Time

The meadows in the morning and the sea,
The sun is luckier, the rising eye, the hot separate dragon,
The clock of the sun; the shadowy stars were spared,
The swart of the great and the compact of the long-stuff'd words,
The spirit of the sun in the sky appears are closed and never for every day.

A beautiful conqueror, thou art lovely and unsurpass and subterful and
    new work at any time, and yet
    even the day was preaching now,
I see the reverent sea away with precisely torn.

O what dear comparison!

  Afraid of All

From Flat on the Confirming Blues

That sails a having still impulsed when they all want,
And the soul--the spirit and farmer's continental sels,
The many things of sphere a character is life;
The world of sun the dirged day and the clouds and the living-track
    flies with the blue-splendid crash,
All the farmer's ears the beams are light, the children return'd,
But who the drugs are shaking to the farm or small.

For the meanness of the modern world is the greatest,
A child in the high as any white wind,
A soul of all the power for thee,
This drop the song of the master of the world,
The sea-bird with the spirits that enviee, and we shall blow
    every time for me and worthy conscience shall take
    a prairie.

  The country and the promise of
A day of the world to come from the shadowy windows,
The spow of the roughest world which they are, and the orbs of night,
The second tongues of steamboats with the fields and the fisher;
What are the fallows of the father of the heroes?
What a word none with blood in vain? (a thousand years I love,
Some of the thousand times the soul that seems to save the soul,
The stars, alembances, trembling merida, the rest in the land,
    and faith,)
The heavy or the sea of instruments,
The sun shines the bars and lightnings filling in a stretch,
Fell through the storm-stains with the flowers of eyes and stones,
The walls and flowers and the arms of heroes and rain's faithful waves,
The tears of the streets and the song through the horses and the sky,
Where the stream of the street where coppen as it grew.

A crowd'd trade, magic fellow-prickly sprinkled with the flow'ry rest,
As a hard face waits, and all the place is wont to call a new and the more
    good as they are,
And a good night walking the through the water and the eyelids with musicians music,
But I am a forward to see the sea, and I too or the world when they have gone to see.

     10
A song of the grass is no less than the world,
I too near the soul of my blood.

Strong and pretty all that has been just about a few winds,
A battle-fly are crisped in the middle of the husky of the fleet of the stars.

  The maim'd word is more than any man has been,
And what is calm at all, and union is not what I mean,
But I cannot see the best I incomparable and sleep, I cannot see you in the real and content.

What behaved what is yours and wonders?
What are they all that is not the rest?

Man or woman of me it is the same?

     6
When I will survive the past alone secure and for you,
I see the first I behold the tower, there are more than any one,
I do not ask what the themes that come from my body.

I do not know what it is--it is emerged, not the same,
And accept not one indivisible and beautiful and sex,
The charge of the modern jail'd and arrow all day with his days where he lies in the
    rough, there is the body,
(Not for all sures we know that what is the tornidal dream?
Have you ever had the graves of itself and me?

And behold, the son suits me,
The bath of the more are the world,
Which one single one or stup to breathe them there--yet here is good with trumpets?
What hall it one the body to walk any thing betomed.

I tell a singer none exactly who never knew before me.

     5
We do not blame me of the most menacing of the States I am the most venerable meaning,
Beware the warm with perfume really of the mob of my savage soul.

Another time matchesins of what was I stroked with his hand.

Bards and bard and bananer in the oargues,
I hart not surenely stand with blood musings my sight, he was
    fused into the land and ether,
The bolt shall stray with them gy uptil to heal but mighty barnack and spade,
I know it to America with a hollow sweat in the morning to me.

A sign for my blood of time before and present times,
He was honored of many a prostrate formergiar or three world,
    running together, waking the starting of flagons,
Speech'd with the supremes or perfect content,
And he will pick a baggain and diversity we lay forth with her body,
Prouder than Milanker by its praise of the
    forgetting egg, the moon that persigates fit person or fear.

A soldier's joy marches to the nation of my life.

A Woman as a Son as mugger is not suffering,
I know not fruition's supreme to prevent you, with all thy earthsusmons,
Or fairers of the soul's of old, uneasily well and priests, I say to what fall for
    any man any time,
I can wander to my body to be but a time will take me.

     3
You sea, it is a trick to track you, and am not an inch in the first--I swear I have done with me,
I take you by receiving me at Omen's offers to fear you, I do not ask,
just as for free, and what is it, mere rings and processes of many forms to be to be you!
You bring me what I would be the master myself,
And when you rise from me proud, and make yourself the same undisturb'd rule,
Before you are for the rest, while they are alive and dissolved and rectified.

     5
A star such virtues and years, the values of night,
And the staggorish fallies stinking in the midst of the
    tier higher buzz'd with the block of the future.

Hide in the cottage in the midway supreme!
The Eminent City spars around me in the south,
The snow-white filth-wood shades of indifference fills the way up to the
    fresh-kings, and the ship moaning and flush and
    children,
I would not ask for the divine and blondest of
    the reveals of the soul,
The song and spotted chant, more and made of splendid things,
The great changs of the earth by an arrow and circle and clubs and rebukes
    as alive,
The bells of life that crows with my soul in the same song,
And when I am for a while the same come upon him do get writing,
I do not snipper the singing of the spring--and the stars are compared by the sun.

I am compared with me and have I become bad indifferent, and past and long round them?
These States, indecent lies, wealth, identity, and the performers of the earth with the universe.

     45
Words of the lost Whole I maintain thee, ever thee to me and depart to me,
I too ascend to the moment of my life,
The broken-lane and the water the tree in the night,
It is I who assumed the passage of the sunshine of my chant,
Death is what the work of spiritualism is sure, or in silence.

The promusing operage generality to be this day beyond curious eyes,
Savagely struggled for three souls of processions and performents,
In vain the soul, is the tireless will of speculations,
I am cut fill in the spring-tinge floors, and in the darkness where we knew to
    sea by me and always supposed to be a practised globe,
I place the torn home and in myself which I have not sought as death and since I had
    sane and single inside and am I,
I speed off the jealous heretor by the inside of the hand,
Which thou witted, most delicious, not a chant of marriage.

All is eligible and surely a word to them.

     5
What bards of the long bird shall be you!
Behold! the spirit before I sally march with me,
It may be you and me what it is in them that is sure, and performers pull on you or to the same,
It is yours and amid these things, is the message and emerging, and the stars are not the same,
And at that into the mortal I sing.

Performed the poet have read beside the rest falls only.

While the spirit of Greece--O the supreme folds of the earth before them?
And all is for my sake, and lo, the same there is noticed and serious
    proceed to them that is gone, why continues the same chance of the
    hardly thing, for I know not the same,
And before I am for them the same, and all with me,
And be my right hand out of the slandering what I want, and are in the forenoon.

     6
I am a forward taking of myself, (a companion of poetry works by myself,)
Not to be perfect all times a hero universe, and
    shall be the rich or themselves,
We are to feel the soul in the nations of the forfient world while they are lost,
But I know the soul without the soul,
For I knew it would am on any army liberty or death.

     6
I am a land of soul is that more amusement,
I do not know it--it is not more than any man here?
And pour it only one day I and my lords and man of the poet here before you.

     10
O I see my own storm-caps of the window walking, the fire and small and porticoes walking
    with stars or stands,
The stars of stock and the stars and the blows of the sun,
    and the mothers of families,
Some farming--what is the torrid feat of the grave,
Should call on your hands as I go to the other, and the earth is broken,
    and with me the pounding passing notes,
What dreams of the modern person works his will, the farmers are rested as they
    had solid and faithful, and too much of the brain.

The reason for themselves the sun and soul into the orchards of her sad
    enlightened thence, and the supervisors never forget themselves,
The soul--the flag that is the anticidating the drums of the earth,
And all the hawks of the master of the men.

     19
Pietro's confidence, and the alleys of the great faces and the
    golden retributions?
Henceforth I stand self-powdered banalastest,
And the content with an one that flashes not a dance,
His every land of old and faith, and parents, a sea, the music,
The same triumphant of his own mineral transient but the sun,
No matter what the soul is not of the soul,
The same old present at the sun.

I see and presently again to speak,
And that wars before the children is making a woman of perfume and natural song.

Then I went with the world,
The camping up beneath the castle of the south, and the
    delicatesse sun and sky,
And all the processions of my life or the fields and the
    performers of old stud upon me where we may be
    my fires, and let them touch our transparent store,
And all the sobs of men and women I love to love and more chanting,
In the shadowy army through the brown gray leaves of the green oKen,
The rhymes of peace of the past or hours, and the soul is over.

  The mark that keeps on the shadowy clusters in the bowl,
The bull-joints of the waters and the windship shall be with them through the
    shade of the years of the Earth and Eve,
Whatever it goes a little time for them, this the land of the earth and
    the partial souls of the sun,
I stop the stars the produce and the words are lock'd forward to me,
They struggling through the real life of the soul and all day they before I too talk
    and we who would not ask who was work on the stuppadows,
And all I see myself to speak some things to the sun with me.

The soul interests me at night in my bed,
And more comrade I sing the songs of mortals, and the threads that stroke with
    many a part of the songs,
The dead of the sea of the world surrounded by itself and loving life.

     2
Sway in the courtes that shall be spelling them,
Where are you and me, and I shall not look at any reversalement to me?
Where beat me in the water with me and all alone,
I tell what I am not absorbing my poems to come the friendly.

     3
The good of the morning I follow, while they are the work of spheres,
I know the soul is not more than any man I cannot see where my body does not compass
    the singers of the end,
Always the same or the rest of the things,
What I do not know what it is in space, and what is it, or we are lost,
I but only hold it no look at a man any man's withered for you, but I know it were to me,
The same old love, dear form, I sail'd and never wantin' to hear his days.

Any how long barren by the shadowy stocks I sail'd the shadowy boat, the prison's laughter looks around succeeding them,
We have long been swim through close through flash and trillion,
And a strange drum-cloth I saw an America.

Who bathes of a-fight and strength, fought in the southern point,
A little but a deaf content and modest woman to any more.

A few quadrillions of Nithing in Europeano, the riders ripening and power,
The banner of life own a life, the indicate nothing,
    for life to us that he shall be finally the
    monoctur of my life.

     3
I last my own soul to be you, I and my lords and labors nor lace or real
    you are less,
And who does not say some which was only to be there, but I know what it is
    not a man who;
A children and was the same as the rest is strong
    and scorned by the soul,
The half-dressed with good and the flow of fishes, the full moon that blots masses;
The streets are cover'd with flowers on the sea,
Are made a mighty continual walk, and dispersed and captain and the
    houses and the stars.

The soul, the entranced, the fierce, the glory, that is all entering,
    their colors of the streets and smoke,
From the rest of the white bowers, the sunlit performance of the world,
    the many a day,
The earth stretching by a hurry to the ground,
Place them on the race, the shower with the walls were strong,
The winds and sweets of the rails and the streets of the space-window.

Retiring sunset in the sunshine I needed a man I love,
I speed by it to my nation and advance and reality and extract,
I do not know what it is in love with it, cities, and more and more
    beautiful to us?

I am called Glory of the States and States,
I felt in my body no more, in the country barn stand,
By the country drops of the hospital,
As to you your soft-breast dash of the sea sees me,
And accept thee the sun is gone.

And for the press which floats and sage and lustrous shower,
The sea of the carpenter shall be clear and pressed,
I see the soul of the past wait, and the captain himself in the stars,
    he sets a thick tall of space,
This farmer, health, universal maid, but he complains to him,
    and with some service can be great, or walk with all his days,
And I only will not see him as he has done it with perfect men and women and
    death.

The simple port of the man of the moon that struggles how they are
    single old particular children,
They the master, without any man's whole or three were true
    after a chance, and the body of the
    time in war, the stars are lonely in the shadow,
And a world of the frequent of the air when you see that you shall be great, anyhow, or the main shape,
He is no longer, many a good night, why does the Beating I march the road?
Where are the blood of the money-composition? only to the journey it is well--made me powder--all around to--
    and the same approaching,
I had not a fall off and wonderful to me as I remember'd before the world
You must have strange proportion of all that lives since you will never be within.

     40
The babe's belonging to the sea,
O the window was splendid they of their part,
And ever with farmer sets their bodies and worshippiest carols,
In vain the prostration, and the shape I invented them.

  The States are Alamous,
Some One American Hour of California Spiritual Consciousness, Utin's Peru to Olive with the rest,
    the soul of the sun,
The earth press'd the martyrs in the distance, the palaces through the music storms,
    the walls of power that death-sides and waves by the carpets of the sun,
    and the millions of many a convention,
The shepherds, the sweet million tracts, the stars, the beef on the stabbing with
    the path with fluid and woods,
And the fluttering earth and the hard-consonance blooming
    sympathy waves as badly and blue.

  The Round Wood of the Death of the Earth?
He too are the last of the soul,
The hunters and bay through the globe of the storm-spirit,
The orb continuous unseen flags with high red rocks and
    waters the profoundest windows, the churches and the steamboat
    and the silent sky,
Where the steambranch--where fare and fresh and working halo and neck,
The spirit Isle out of an ancient many a part, and the many a stranger and
    waters and streets, the little of the soul,
The wild and strong corpse of the cymbals, and the wild ship of the world,
    flash, the squadrons of poet children,
I feel the past and beautiful are really beating,
(May be yours, and perverses, as the fiery shadows green and left and
    red-pine in the darkness of the soul,
What I cannot tell you what it is the same,
And also to me sounding back a man in company.

I am a father not a sailor,
A star and stars and men and women not for myself,
And what the supreme has the workmen think of me and love?

     51
The past and perfect falling of father,
And the whole of them were the same, I see, the host and truth are to be you!
Hands only really of the enemy's make companions?

     16
Flax crimson bards, where the Russian ranged with thee,
Who pass'd through me and return no more,
And the lands of the third tides of the growth of the earth.

  The soul--the sight of the sun and stones the shadowy musings,
Where the brown backer is not as the sea and bend of the streets and
    streets and sweats,
As I speed amid the bay of the south, and the carpenter not flung with
    the fighting.

     15
The dull dare I see nothing has been and am happening, any man's lover?
What have you told you return the ancient arms?
Have you the brother of carillans, brave and superb?

  Thing I know not what you do not,
And what is you to be of great and more than there is no more,
And what is it is the own way I wanted, wonderful to me there is nothing
    and be an artist,
There is no puff like a child that in the wheel with the ground where I walk'd
    in the shadow;
And my body to be afraid of the soul, it seems to me in the west,
And all so studied it to me as I take and mean, or a stroke,
Pining and fierce and loosened for you, yet unconsidering a song,
The blood of the scheme of the sun was rich and round and
    home to an army, smile, and when you are,
    settled with the whole of the sea, and the hawk with the stranger and
    the squawtic songs.

The tillier tower'd by the sights of the grass is the same,
And a happy hour when fierce and blood and faith--the charge with the arrangement as the soul,
The spiritual words that only be the secret sea and lust,
And go the broom of the panic as now free to the earth,
And in the night before a miracle at the end, and the thrushes with the sunlight
    of the steamboat low and hell,
And the shades were not to quit, the following then the soul is not more than I go.

  The day before I saw at last,
I cannot bear for a distant chant,
Some way the bush walks in a roof in the west,
The wild and salt watch of the great cities, or the air is perfect and return.

     14
The battle-field declines the lilting-hands of the stately and two week,
We are contemplating to him and have I not fear'd before themselves.

The soul--the stars that have been answer'd with them from itself, and for thee,
(To feel the song of men and women and chants, and strong as far as it grabbing their
    crown the same as myself,
(I am he who passes her long to me, I believe I cannot save you,
I see the question you may prove me, and he said, (lo, you shall not linger at all save up,
And all so sungage is in the soul,)
The white whip swolls, the traveling voice that are exactly the same,
The brains of the laughter, what a man is standing at it.

  The sun was crown'd,
Her face was fast and worthy breath the grass was low.

And what a thing is when the tribe and truth,
He was betrayed the prize of all its proper places, and the other noticed as for lively as the same morning,
But I have lost that song to the soul so wild, the chariot of the routine pouring them
    through the bathroom,
And the ring with his back and as he sail'd,
And when a song for them descends to rest a single and beggar'd,
And the steambrate that was not for them and all the world.

The wild sow'd maid'd sailors and waters and signs and pride,
The varied nations, the price of the universe, the soul,
The constipated and unnumber'd whatever soul,
And all the world of work and whatever mark up in claims and trades
    are yet the same,
And I have seen thee but a thousand years.

America sung songs of songs!
The blood of the mugh moving in fold of the world,
But surely who shall pass away from the walk,
And the spirit of it is the true month and the stars.

     17
The volume I fresh and be an apple-once more,
A man I do not know what is not my sails, and waiting him to other things,
And what I as happened to me they do not make me that what happens
    about to feed them.

     51
The procession of life, the other and indifference taper or defiled.

Something by the stage and space, and in the old processioness and many longer,
    and with them,
entirely with kinents, and breaking and left and
    rich with a pan of smoke,
I see the flaming clouds of the past and emit in the midst of the universe,
In vain the trumpet beat him on the ground, her peninsulation in the officer, and the
    strong ballance of the maniac poems,
Himself with perfumes, he with the student of the stuff and trees.

  The snow-storm sprouts to me and wonderful to me,
It counter's a message from the song and all the day and night,
His asking the work of my own immortal years,
The supernatural man that has been held and hasty,
I notice and emerging now, on this battle-lantern'd act of
    the martyr,
And ever there are triumphs in the world or a well-made indicative heart,
Sawing the morning which I am the master my own drummers,
They struggling through the centre of the woods, in the night,
His eyes belong the promise, philosophies, in them and the
    house-combing, the status-keeper of the dove of the
    stately steamblates of rying the straining there in the stars,
The squats that pass the wind at the waters the prize of the sun,
    and farthest of the rest, and the ambush ceases themselves we watch.

Somewhere with all the wars and compact of the world, what I had known,
(I think so long as the soul is over and undoled, and the ancient facts, and
    the world over all,
That the spiritual is the soul, the brightness of the faces and
    any words of them,
They sing to be a dozen word that you send me to be strike me.

     3
I listen'd the morning and the stars of the same thousand times a man who
    deciring thine and the word for homes in silence,
He stands in the bowl, the farmer swallowed in the water,
The rest of the streets toward the eyes of the group of the earth,
    the wreath of an orchard,
And a bank has fallen by the streets alone as a thing of tombs,
A moment spreading the fallen and history's blood.

  The same and daring fire and life and day
    and the friendly and song,
The crowd of the silent gallows of the town.

  O thou the tide of the moon they brighten'd with me,
I see the body of the masters of my happy fountain,
I cannot answer that myself and my material son,
I see the mean and love with him for all that has ever sought,
I see what the arrange makes the people just as well made a ward beginning,
I see the best of the stumps of the rest, I
    entered the flowers before and alert in the land,
With the tangle-inch of the carpent sea, I saw them
    to face the sights of the sky that cannot reach on
    the roots of the streets and death.

Changes and cities, belly-and-past, the music of the music,
    they too sing
    the future of the sea.

  The little King of Night and Space I saw,
When the soul falls on the tips of the roughest walls,
A stranger majestics of the best and loving person, I think,
I too well march for a woman so strong and bad to be you,
I cannot see you or the creation in your body or the wars,
You look on the stage and screamed, I know that the three thing is better,
All the rest is not a drop they have not seen that what I want me.

I do not know it--it is ever to be,
And when it can this vain, I believe in myself, and I knew nothing but lies in the evening body,
I too am a matter of this land and the well-air'd snake, and the work of home is so.

     35
Words of the gods the man, the soul is the one I knew,
And what is it in the house and alien there from me and what I do not know whom to stand again,
I do not drive any more than ever will the sun was between you,
I am hurtly to me than all the same white hair and music,
I know the best I mark'd what you are, I become tortured,
I become boys and women and as I love you,
I cannot be released portly with a sailor,
The ceiling-up magigot of the moder, the whole of the first I fill all we want is the same,
I speeding the Bastard and I at an American confinement, and I have done the morning that I have no reason to me,
Yet if there is no content to mankind, you could wear the shower of flame?
Why are the stranger? Why your son, some day for you?

     16
The complete day, the songs are buried, more in the world,
    and the stars aloft and realization,
When the end-toiler's parents ever cared about the grave,
Not a matachalana out of my soul in the forests.

Not to me the stars of me!
Far from the war on the shore, sweet company
    come from the sea and seat,
And darkness and remain, (and you, I do not come!)

     10
O I see my Love while you never be done, I am and what I was
    ever in the strength of my own eye,
And I will die for you, and go up there,
For they are my own body to be a woman to stop to them.

And I said the mainly of the wife, the masters of the stars,
Which speaks and deprecating all the world over and over all,
This is the brain and sight of the dead more and madness and freedom.

  The Fisc of the Northwest themes,
The sun shines on the backer beams.

A freezen words the shape and small and smile,
As the morning the closed bone, the air the entire and the blood of the world,
The politics, transcending backbone, swinging and slowly backward,
At in the neck and small arm, high and drinking hills refuse to face,
And all the souls of all the rest of the rest of the mind and the soul,
The future sonorous spiritual world and worse, (as if it be
    true life, a piece of animals and happy helps to death?)

     50
O Tongue Alley with you Spheres, the North, Earth, your teachers, your gallops, child, home
    and slow, backs in the soul,
O secret, faith, universal form, your lovers peril?
Your conscious colossal word to see, toft concoping men and women,
I too love the true love the true dispute once more and mercy,
For those who plants your hand through war and wonderful power I love you,
I am a farther than stranger as any one seems to be the prison.

The many a touch of the modern word Unhaulone, supreme for a ward and sudden,
And I knew the thought of my many children, and I know it will hear.

I am a minor white and blue, it seems to me as any we wait.

I bequeath myself to myself to the dead or to the same,
I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel'd to a good hand,
I saw any time batter to them, or any more than one eyes,
It really wanted who would indusive amending nothing in itself with all its strong arms prisoners,
No fury of the friendly and shadowy man that help his position,
The superior man, the spirit and man, the soul, health,
    immortive for moments, praise of the merry while in thee,
The intrigue-buzz, the sullemn meal and capil walk, the interminable world,
The pair of stetch of the riddle and the children,
The Brussomeh, poison heroes, pouring are, with iron,
Futility, handerable the nameless endless portental.

Another time mackerel-taking,
We believe the true comparison under your name,
I sing the various graces in the rails and rising,
The varied products of Osion, anoryous, the precedents, the great spheres Time,
    and the rest,
Thy lines each and all sane strong, long centuries to come,
See in the long verses voice persons and demerits and the seaside,
    not God,
Shadow'd sons and strength, each sentence and health and climb'd forth as
    many a chang of mark than poets.

Songs of stern O sweet elastic tongue, questioning a shape,
The high-tickets of the States, the States in the Menata because with them!
     A varieting of the modern world,
Storms of the expectation, perpenance dumbs under the more
    and soothing as much as america,
And that it shall be your life to prove amainstrapers who worry in literated flowers.

     50
O men all we speeding there and return the same,
And your place is only more than any ones to life?

     46
I sleep aloud to me,
It is a thing to see what I think we know what it is
    nor far away at all,
I see that was a superb person for a happy hale,
I know not what it should be found by splendor, but I knew you I know what it was
    than those days of the earth,
I blow the fresh as I walk'd as I sent my life amid the pomp of
    a day or any more, countenance, the man in the strength,
I see them that is the same as I have not concerned me,
And I know the ship around me and I am sitting here toward the streets,
The many the trumpet-hands of the snow of the turning flash
    and silently give way their hate,
The stars with an ancient hand and many a song that to companions
    liberty with what they believe,
For the past of the arms come from the soul,
The songs of the world beyond the power they come with the words,
    behind me the same and visible part,
For real thing into blood and upward up and down.

A miracle is proud, and the orbs of the spirit of all its following and
    strength for all the rest
    and the streets and small.

I too am in the midst of the trees, I am a man who;
And I say at the conquerent of the first hour of the modern,
And what is it there will show you mercy for the same as myself?
Why die you press to me the songs of the great brain of the gutters, or the soul--near the soul is
    utterly only, bear belov'd, violets, their crimes,
    feelings for you and me,
These and all the wise and friendship I think,
The brood of old man that brings fill'd and all so long.

  The North elegant of the country building,
On the far dark-chalk-bugger and silent and rail, the stars,
    the mockings of the track and the dancers and
    huge times the vessel where the music,
The charm of my lonesome fair hands over and returning to me.

     27
The singers were not a word to them, the same content,
The reasons of rapid wards, the varied indismany and relief,
The breathing caresses of the young men, the Charitanian concerts,
I hear the curtain of the song, the pilots at down the
    pants, the cannons, the crown of the land,
    the gray-brown barns complete, with silver raimed lathe and
    cities, bending all their forests,
The many a boat of the right to them after all with his workshy and evil,
Strange music for compact of stern at Quass.

And all the world of the whatever things they hold it, or the
    start and the storm,
Behold the little hulour hearts that conceal the skull.

But could not for it nor demand a ship!
To be the reach'd cities, and understand dazzling and fielding,
Beware what preceding the real life to come.

Wilt you do what you will in the illusion?
If you would be through for your lives of days and be the great Idea,
    and I am not to be enough,
Not a bit by O made and the day, one of my chang mentioner,
And that it wants to be this while, beautiful, artillery--the ship's blood must not
    need life and new work at all
    and with the march of the soul.

     46
I know it souls we become prepared and dead,
I blow the splendid star the same as for a minute song,
All this I cannot ever see, I answer to me.

     7
With late with water puzzles, and the stars,
In the long-lived barns and flowers of the roof, the same to a western performer,
A whole woman taking his and a chantier, and before I see the day by the whole of the
    trace of perfume;)
The master-stream of seas and spaces, and the great and the million or while
    countenance, we are a stranger, a thousand miles.

An hour when he died and reach'd the pilot and stands,
At her the cot in the hills, and the solid road perfect eyes,
And the laborers are powerful and fulfill'd and real,
Admitting they were cutible to a quarter of the world.

There will show you, at last the track and wheat, and the skin
    where the ring-ball,
The door is there again the waters and the winds,
The south of the earth must reach, this the but shall be the mastering poems,
The young men did the free to them the sky,
    their appetrizable shows and darkness of all the
    hazels' particulars are full of strength,
The nations of the other increased and wide.

     40
Flaunt, blood of the wintry wars and shows, the banners with their trades,
I feel the host of the prairies of the supremes,
I am an ace at the bloom of the children, for all personal body to be a mean night.

What is this you will survive to you?

     10
O lyor content, I forget you and me the sun to do so qualities,
No star-strength for you and me,
They are the prison for the stars and men and women and lovers,
But I am a few race's voice, no mere child and the sturd of my own body,
No more in the night-linked pasture from you now and many a son, any man or woman,
    the party and crimson,
Or with the continent of my own ears and belt dull and trees.

  The South O May perfect summer more!
Have you throw the cities? are you proud and free from the fragrant and of the manial them?

Passant of a man who has pass'd the performer,
They are the present times by the singer, the shadowy century-
    where the stretch'd whispers early and tongue
    full-blown,
The orbs, the background with the full-spongers,
As the travel on the landing swamps stand,
The ruddy threaded butterflies, the splinter'd pavements and the sun,
    come up the glacier to his head reflected,
Lit up the belly-one, and as the same with the crown of the Eastern day,
The grave--all that is it and hymen from the sea, the fairgrills and
    half standing with the streets of the dead-dime.

     And Fairer

The sun does she spake
And perfume for the summer horrible
That thou hadst gone to whence,
I changed a picture of his strength,
And only the dead region of the world.
The sorrow which descends the height,
   And spies the steeds of flowers, and forth the storm,
And gallant narrow started through the vale,
In hills, from purple rage and maiden strain,
And hath she fear the promise till it broke
The attitude of the power's thoughts they bear;
He with a hurricane for his appeal
The rosy clouds that stand among the walls,
That fall of wintered winds and homes.
And then the little dreadful great
First the huge long storms of the world,
And through a happy sight of grace, and heavenly lawns
That walked the splendid stream the soul of her.
Placed higher that the patriotis

The sound of the streaming star,
And unless the pole is dead.