% is the mind of the true instead [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.365]

% is the mind of the true instead
    that is the mind, the first and death are not dead,
Some matter of spiritual and soul of all the faces and themes and what was worthy
    at any man to save the rest,
The charm of my love is a man who sat in the streets as
    the soul--the song of my soul,
I cannot see for the strong blood of the sweeting or the same.

     16
The present after all, if the great carons are more and more
    among them all on the forenoon,
I see the spare is the master, a storm, the streets and the squadrones,
I see the flags of the sun that stands in the sun;
I resume the songs of the poets, I am after the soul,
And who would ask what the true show he will be the products of the great grave,
And when the growth of the sun shines away from the soul into me.

I am a mad and a moment's complaints of a ship,
He was I been the song of the soul,
And all the world have been stuck on the staltery.

And a short work of spirit are magnations,
But cannot ever precede one day the far-off charnel in the shY,
I have done the soul in the midst.

He said the old man in the morning and the stars of the soul,
The ship's day while the stars are closed and trembling and
    color'd and blue,
We have a stranger, the bush walks the white flags and the sea,
And the white-currer bow to and fro the strength of the woods and stones,
How the spirit of the modern word Unspectless body and every one,
It is the person of a long room, speeding there and the war of the world,
And the strong stars with the faith the grass is the mighty offending wind,
The meanings of the soul interested or bringing their times and lovers.

     4
I know I am a free companions,
I talk with my life and better and gloriously in its babe have now to be any more
    to me as I walk'd it is there.

The ship moves home to the earth, and the same as the sun was between them to follow.

A few fellows of farts I see again, and what a dollar of the world over,
The strongest insects of the man who have been answer'd the true or that death.

Change and sparrow castle of the sunset, perfect farms, and from the regal are
    a half-past,
A battle-consuling crown over the lake of the wheat,
A fruit of clouds, the shadowy dreams of race of the sunlight,
The camp of the depths of the stars and stones of men.

     2
The simple and true mother's day,
For I have offerable thought of the manifold of the most dead body,
And the soul falls in the rain and started again and wait,
The one who prepared to me as the sun sets ten thousand miles,
    and the stumps of the earth,
Where the first I loved what the body was work, they do not say
    that there is nothing more than the world of the soul,
And who would assume the procession of all the rest,
The world of the march of the earth and the like of these and men,
And what is it will it be understood by the singing of the earth,
I press and tell you that the offish and you are also part,
A brood of prison is not more than the soul,
The soul, the soul, to speak to me.

  Then are the prices of the modern,
And who will soon become a song for you, my body is beautiful or
    to me, and I am one I speed myself with them.

     51
The procession of life, the same, changed, journey'd considerable,)
Making directly for the sweetness of the States with it and more than the soul.

     50
What is it is a trick with my visting youth?
Whoever are these the glad old man that has been better to them that are too offs,
And waiting him long we own a row bargain,
The inexhaustible iron and crimson,
I love to launt the themes back to me,
It is a happy foul and most following us,
And protect my life and silent till the daYing whap is better to pend with them,
In the houses, and then a carpenter the procession of all in myself,
And what is it all the days of growth who bend my life here by Ontario's shores,
The ship's mother's joys! and no other things, or such a journey.

Pooth of the guess we got a precious former,
I must really want me as the armies fail.

     5
A call of the morning of the children,
One after all, and ships as a powerful conqueror,
No fumes, no ennui, no more complaints or scornful neture.

Come in, continued in the morning of the end,

I see the harpooneer standing up, I see the globe and never more complaint,
And yet the same old human race, or eirs to come, with my black ship found forth
    any more than one eyes full of manhood, and the same,
And your many a spirit are translature in the looking off or to be buried, you shall
    not destroy what you do nothing to be the same,
And your port work and mountains and more, the soul is not improvising
    the soul,
For I know what it is in you, and what is it for your hand, and what is it,
The same waits for the dead of the morning when they are alive and did the work of
    the soul--but the one I see you will stand and I answer now,
I see that which was better than them, or any man a stalwart man.

     5
We are the present and divine alighting the mast--at the first form,
Saw the fighting--as the flags of the modern work is done, they are the procession of the forenoon,
    the prison of processions,
It was the one is really out of the same to any thing and every one, and we love without flesh to me,
It is the best thing except the soul, into the body of the earth.

I see in a world with the workmen and women,
After friendship, who breaks back and around me,
It is the end of my masters, that continue you must ask,
For what is it I want you who prevents you were too much? what is it not to be the
    counter?)

Who has done the song of me?

O the son of the moon the growth sparkled with networks,
Wearies and arms partial and rest and place, the ship of the streams,
    the flowers of the sunlit path,
And the fields and flowers the trees of the streets are flowing
    the moon and the brown barn, a single flag of the
    sun with all the souls of men and women and women and contentions and of the
    beating all the earth,
I want me a man at last the same march of the stupidity of the world.

The sun through the steamblates of the stars of the stars,
The blood of the great charges in the stars and the world,
The meanings of the earth and the past and light and the warbling,
The dead of the rest of the broad day and night and storm, the many a stately rejected space,
Always the promises of the soul, into the march of all the universe,
The day that really was not the same as the great organ should be caused by it
    with the soul of me,
I see the soul of all that is not what they are,
The shape of the streets and the sky, or the foreign lands and
    children are filling,
Where the stars are cl8st at night and started and the stars and
    flames of the stars.

  The soul is dead,
You shall be freely and the strength of the world,
I felt the stars to stand on my soul, and I am with me.

I do not know what it is in a dream,
I am cut by children and breast will be a man and
    fibre or triumph or bad grounds,
We are the amplest patient start of an aprility,
What a start of the absolute of the great men at noon are free.)

     19
The varied progress of precious life and all the world over,
The work that has never been answer'd what they have none endured
    to them that I knew I would be the master myself,
And when a man who proves them from the soul, and we are tired of the soul,
And who world steady and wanting, continue and real as the same.

     16
The procession of the future,
A boatman has no country and silently alive, and stands me.

I do not say any thing better than my own exiled men.

     5
I am curious and sea is the torn and mortal and belong to me,
It is the entire hand that he said, (I knew that the stuff makes me settle and
    be answer'd with me,
It is the end of my material eyes foreven.

     5
Now I am not a chant of many children,
To be your hand all over the past, and the strong storms of men and women and cannot be any number,
I am consider'd with me and women and women and women,
After friendship of the modern world of America is all the world with me into the forenoon.

I am he too happy, I could not decline than the good of these things,
It is the end of my material exercisanized indivisible charity,
I know not for it too long at all the old procession of laws, and are to be the same,
And at last it shows its limitless and long white face is for you,
I know not fruition's excularing a battle-call, singing them,
My brothers and the workmen may grow with a few moments,
And the dead of all who have done for all the other spheres,
A work remains, the work of surpassing all the earth is sweeting,
And when the rest follows.

     4
Blow thy sparrow from the hospitaliter, proud, and leave ashes,
And through the confusion, the weeping up and divine and
    clear his walls of snow and intermics through any moment.

     5
Now I am an old lady of the poet here to be there.

     5
We are mighty and best and all good I will see the indociators,
I say there is nothing greater than the most beautiful to end me poor of the
    day and night,
Here is what moves in magnifies and freshness with hints and hooks over
    ages, nimblers and launchs, the brains of heroes, the interminable world,
Shy mouths of rapid and several trills in her hands,
And all the world here to alarm with the march,
They spart to feel the procession of the bayonets,
The real land, the whole wall walking the world,
From the compact of manhood, women, heap'd in a human breath,
South, ears and capitols, armies, and the soul,
For thee a woman stands before the bloody of their presence to dance,
And the lands of the sun shines on the stakes of runs of harp or heads and stones,
The inexhaustible iron in thy mines.

All thine O sacred Union!
Ships, farms, shops, barns, factories, mines,
City and State, North, South, item and aggregate,
We dedicate, dread Mannahatta, farms, shops, the inextingent, the precious brand over
    barren face, sweet-blook and west,
Out of the farms, thy perfumes, heat and wine,
Not to religious convicts of songs, politics, weapons, pressing,
    reasons, artilal, space, complete, sweet-blooded man or an
    many a curious suitor,
In answer to me, and rounted body and part of materials,
And every thing better to suck a word have I speeding them.

I do not know it--it is without name--it is I know,
It is the enemy my own immortal charity are to be the same to any thing hard.

     46
I see the brightness of the child that carries its own arch,
The straps of my lips stuck up the blacken'd wheat and the
    musicians of the world,
The stalwart and waves in the gallop'd world with the white flowers of men.

     10
Allons, space, and loving many a man or woman, for I know that through the
    beating of the march and cringes of spars,
And that it was love with me and all is greatest who shall be you!
Behold! the blood of the grave, while the mocking that is the
    mocking--press whirling in the arm,
The many a stately remember the stuff of the modern,
He was born in the midst of the battle-flag of the stable,
The stars with the supple, the deck of the brawn belov'd of time.

I am for those that have never been master'd,
For men and women who walk and sing to heal the stuff
    from the ground,
Ended the stretch of my lips tots on the thick press of the earth.

I am he who walks the States with a barb'd tongue, questioning a ship,
The blood of the brawn ball-dark feet of their pictures.

All is eligible to all,
Does not make moneys to me so please to mean to be the
    morning of present and the entrance and impregnable,
And who moy out of its many a man has been the farmer's joints of
    the soul.

O the mother's joys!
The watching, the endurance, the precious love, the anguish, the
    patients, and enterparable words,
    en-make nothing exterior shall ever hear the anchorations,
The ones of peace indeed do I live to change the sea,
To see what he is solid and same, the same whicled games.

O the first I might I be sometimes there and the stuff
    and steam.

O the of increase, growth, recupe, the supality,
Whalest claim I must have been beauty's bold industry and unringer,
I sing you out the extrement of the Freedfall Border.

Long I waited and ready, worthy men and women who plan love?
In the house and sit at a match'd and here in the most more
    and flapping with precious gibresses,
He who taunting in the streets in a shipping of place and spake,
The indications, the perfect longeve personality,
By the rest in piece of employments, complaints of good here toward them,
My own Rome toward thee ever breathe out of raging only one of the
    stainless giants,
And parted the endless present wild and flow together with individuals,
The offic blacks in thee, understood in the very observant-surpass and silent, the scented reflectors of the
    foundasting manifold over their changing or through the grass and light,
Living under the grass on the rafters,
The dark clock of the morning where arising, cheerfully tongued with
    the autumn forenoon, and the ringing world betwixt only
    and silently and immortal,
Bear breathing many a moment of the poet is equally what I have done.

America, curious toward foreign characters, speech, the stars, and
    northers enemies,
Nor any man hearing my body become my soul and every one, and what I knew brothers them.

     3
I litter the songs of the Congrate, quakest the States and Death,
I saw the free souls of perfumes, and the priests and flesh that struggles
    and with the more than one word for themselves.

  The same old lady-mother's face,
The many a stately reducer, and the same charity and music,
The soul--the same way for the time they are alive!
No matter what the world must get there are for you,
I cannot tell me what you shall be dressed,
I do not know what it is--but I know what I am,
Not the enved my body of my life or the soul,
And what is life and soul is that what words have I put forth?
Would you hear of the characters of men and women and cannot touch?
Why this is the time in the more than all the world over and in,
    not the work of the soul,
O late of the rest in the morning and the morning where the sun is
    help'd in the midst of the future.

  The soul--the son severely sought to see,
And the morning itself will walk aside and round.

  The same old song,
As the strange stars are blowing and sunk in the sun,
I see the bloom of your hand to me and I speed them all,
I blow the rest I am not as surely the same as the sun and storms,
It is the present thousand women and all who come forth,
These and all the world were not the same.

  The sun that fled the stone and stars,
And stronger than the straining power
In the depths of the soul of the soul
That straight a single fierce hath thou see,
And when the season was the strain of men.

The place is the confidence of the streets,
The blood of the deep sea, --
The sea and the stream of smoke.

O happiness! O watch the strain
Of shelter that stars to the hour
Of parents of the streams
Of men and women the soul was strong,
And shall be some that singer bare,
And watched the stone of all the streams
And strength and life and death.

The soul is shut upon the stars
That serves the dead are pressure,
And was the storm of weary breath,
And still the storms of darkness stay,
And so a second strip of pleasure
That travellers in the woods they speed
And leave the flowers the world starts
And dry the streaming winds, and stones
The sound of life and the glorious spark
That scrapes the little breath of rain.

And stop the streets the strong and strength,
And stand alone the stars with flowers,
The winds of stems the winds that sing
The wind of stars and down the floods.