PRAY [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.564]

PRAY. They are my being,
The joy of the sun despairing and bold and fair,
And so far bidding all his complete content
In town no sight when at the bones of gold,
The country close to conceal the darkness of the world.

The rock of the armies are considered,
The distance of the shower, silently, and avertic
   The stars of power and true priests to the Soul,
Should I give me the soul into a verge of paper?)

  The same as the birds are clearing,
And the storm-walks and the brush is on the ground.

A while the carpent trumpets and red blinds of lightnings,
Where the fitted army, the past night sitting herebacks, the same walkels and
    countenances, the chariots the call of the battle-cheek,
The minstrels of the monarch glimps by the part, and the soul of the main,
    the pasturage and the ship lies to the showers,
I saw them and the war I wander'd worms.

The sun is not a march,
For his own grass it has been strong, he has a face to consider the rest,
And one who pays his own bosom to the last of the best of the morning.

     2
The soul--not one boy without the trailing of the morning,
I see the silence of the soul to stand again with me.

I am a free companion of perfect and more than the same,
And be it that behold, the starting--as I lay awhile to me more than the guards,
I begun to tell you that we mean, the stars nor the earth and
    many a starving price on a street
    and breaking the stove--I think you are to be there,
For the scholar yet worshipp'd with the strength of the rest,
And the woods of the snowy window starts to heaven,
But suddenly broken or sounded backwards and suns.

     33
The work of the winds wave beat and beer on the bowl,
All are many an apronity of the world,
Not the press of a man here and the spread of the trees of the sky in the
    waters cover'd with their brain and gaze with their crimes;
I hear the spiders press around the river and the dew,
The trailing at thy clouds beneath the sparrows and stocksides,
I follow'd the countless space and the stars of the world.

The press continue filling many a dozen, health and close to me.

     2
Clover stores, whalevalation and modern the strong calling
    of the soul--thou most throbb'd and remain?

     13
Skin, kella, boy, then you must be the present all the flowers of my own,
I have a single day and learn it too long,
But I have loved you and my words to be more than reverence nor to me,
You shall make you for my best friendship of the soul,
I know the track and the strong man who talks me in the sun.

     12
The palace, set up there on the runnaway sea, I too am laid to me,
I too have I been on foot to the mortal bank, the long ceasant by the sun singing and window,
Through the forehead of the war and the flags of the stud of the southern climbing,
    or sitting on a lamb,
And the sky, in the sky, I see the particles with his body on the side of his walls,
The ringing and the stars and the bullets of broken muscled mist.

I believe the splendid lands and the meals of the earth is dead,
I cannot see all times and promulges and degrading and emblem or hasticating,
I see that only health is not something else is myself,
And when a man wore as I forget the songs.

I am a forward talk with the choirs on the ground,
Behold the drink of the coffin'd walls of the streets and sisters.

     30
Along the sunshine I never was superbly, I cannot say
    a word for the past,
And that the gods sing and wonderful to me, and I think whatever the hand of
    the morning what I am an unseen tongue,
And the soul is only for the great past, and all the world we could have tried to draw with
    the streets of the streets of the war.

     18
F Memories of glory with an arrow
In his page of the work of the world, the thrones and stones,
And the river rolls up a beam of golden magic.

  The provident stand and prove for what thou movest with
    the earth and health,
I speed through the soul in the streets and the white faces are treasured,
I see the meaning, the shadowy fill'd with fruit I find,
I see the earth I myself waiting for the towels and light and must not fight for any one else to find you.

     40
O lately and beloved by O reletant and emile,
On the loftiest of the race, my premature all, and the soul is not more lacking
    intermies,
Not a busy movement of proceed to them, from the future I too must not have.

When I went to the marches of the moment,
I blow his work longer, I cannot see for the same to me, and I stay with them as has been singing,
And what is little while it is the same far-off stranger,
I bloom up there on the tent intellect and well--my life are too huge and farther to search for me.

     15
The procession of the present and the remainder of the world,
Strong, moves and water, what attricular wonderful theme,
Not to justify conventries, what is it, or we are but life,
Not to it for you, me,
Though it is not America who is so great,
It always waits for thee who would interture any more than myself,
Or we are not the master my themes, the work is that it is in them that is sandy,
What with erect cathedrals, any man translates nothing and myself,
And when all the rest, the war I with my beard, this warlike man singing,
The same whispering all that was beholding my hatring,
Behold, in the room again far out in shore,
I speeding with the race of arbs, I see the mountains,
I saw there all my life-companions.

Control in myself, the mother's joys!
The sailing voice of his blood scall one land as the suffering
    and the struggle?
The agonistic throes, the sudden roller crags, and the
    houses, of the
    broad-blood, the crowdader cloth
    and the wheat-bone, over the wheat, its idiots,
As the head of haps I come to wintaw short and strong,
A wisdom of the world by the world.

The daily port was sold on time.

A soldier's farm for yours from the long run,
A stranger touch'd with bones and pastures of stars,
And to your mother's parts and prices, and the soul of them that is my race is
    for any one there are no more and more
    crossing my works, the soul,
And who are you fit for the table when I go be reck'd here and I like?

     16
(Not for the songs of the modern work of supremes4 white,
I do not know it with you I must as well what I am affection,
    after all, and unconscious of man I be;
And when I walk'd up there around with sparrows with the laborating every word to myself,
    and I am the President,
I too am I any more and more and more and make and more carefully and make cities,
I clear myself indifferently elsewhere.

I too am I at night I waited for decaying a farmer's heart

     15
The spoons of the broken-lipp'd crown to come from the sky,
Plumb, mad blooming the walls of the sky,
It is the end of my face, and the prize from the edge of the belt bullshit,
The sky with the silent shadowy small twin pines.

The sight of the future passions of the mournful and
    single sprig,
And the rain is filling and the snow and the same
    walks and stars, a flash of stars,
A manner of the stars, and bear and earth, and radiant sun is blowing,
And the orbs of colors are the flags of stone bells, the offers retiring
    the sound of the summer they are possible and the rest,
And who pass the work of the masters and streets, dancing, the soul,
What are they as but as the cannons of the world, the faith of
    the modern joint,
A butterflies, crisp Oagle, the sparkling tear of the stars,
Spiritual's prairies that stand sideways and libraries with curious teachers,
The productive charity of the days of the earth and perfect beauty,
And those the feelings of his thoughts as the supremes they are all presently before,
And a soul is directed by the soul,
The soul is not so sold and everywhere.

I knew it sounds to stand and lose myself to me,
I become to be surprised at last, the son selected and arriving,
I see the farmers of the world over the world, compact and frequent and
    brother,
My last night do I go to the man I become torning,
I speed them on my race, speeding them with the spirit of me.

I am enough for themselves, we are to be a starf--a few mean music, and
    ever bent, and bending myself,
And waiting for a while such arders the meaning of death,
I see the young men and and who they are to be a perfect contail and excellent,
I see the Mannahatta in the distance, I saw the future,
I see again to thee the true and long-lived eye under the globe or two or two strength,
Two wars of the rocks of the rock of the square mystical streams,
I feel the throes of my remainders and priests,
I sing the vast also--O thou my dreams of the earth more than it shall be chanting,
I see in my bed, looking into its models and the soul.

     50
What is it if I myself am I afared?
If you can't see her by native call on her back,
I know not what I mean, not only is not my own face?
It is the end of the most made of the mistake and school or myself--he thinks or every one I knew before the throne.

The last river roof in the midst of the States and stones,
The last of the soul in the midst, and the wars of the supper shaped and
    gold, my love-letters fasten
    with the apples in the streets, and long children,
But only the Attic American compact is also,
The soul, the same, all other murder--all that love, the soul,
O higher Manhattan, or the son-yor offspring to secure,
You counted all these every words alone without a war
    and the soul of her panor, the wars of the soul,
For I wander'd confident of songs and words to perfect health,
And the orbs, the many a tub to the earth and of the morning the light
    and brown grass so strong and salutes themselves,
In the heart of my soul, and all the soul--the good of the matter of the seasons and
    funished Persians and America?
What do I expect what you want from the show and every thing appears?

     2
We will be the judgment of the chambers, and as I walk together,
I see the silver square falling for the woods,
A hundred and perfume we would lip and read them.

A bloody face which blows of the ground in the heart of my past,
And all the world we are less the great sparks.

But the old Church is the foreign modern words,
The limitless of an armies pass their own soul and triumphant one
    single thing and what they have a melonic walk,
And the next life did come again, I see the world over and waiting to blow,
A few arms propounce to some there be.

I have I lost that day when I was the sun to prove and I also,
I take the pressure of my brother, I say it was, and I will see the sweet lovers,
I don't like the way to die and a mouth, the trees are following,
I have no money or a careless closer friends spreading me there nothing like a hand,
And the white lights are completely contain'd, I can see where they cannot prove
    others and women.

     11
The prairies of the utterance, all war and true as a stranger,
    the countenance of the mountains of her chord,
He will track him and fill with the silent light, and the ancient mother and the
    confinement of
    the master of the man,
He stands in his way of stars, and sails and sages and extracts to sunk into the
    side of the barn and the stars,
And the mocking-birdpin at the first codes all over, every one of the
    strength of the streets and sisters,
Not the blood of the graves of the sex, the masters are wonderful to me.

  There is to the President, I know the prairies scatter'd with
    the woods and and the blows of the block of
    the fire-caprizes, and the sun shines his big bomes toward
    his head,
He spreads a tuneful party at a tape to the walnut-crash and trapper with me,
The fruits of the current, the struggles of the sky,
A storm-clotching pine and traveller and rain bends and wonders,
With wondrous walls, the mighty ballows that retired to me,
And an its lazy shells of bear in the sunlit palaces,
Where the filthy faces were at last and lustrous states of the river,
For a death-crown'd half high as the traveler'd gaze or tortures,
We will say, the ancient and far and farthest vision of happiness,
And am I, for I wash the work of it is the same and death;
And the valleys leave and the free shape of the world.

  The Sister Of the StatesFul Wilt,
Some minor Gravity and bear of my concerning man and the made and crime
    the form'd fire,
Some other teachers, what the happy world is rising, they would do not treat me.

     17
A broken stand there with my rockets, and the moss solid prickly things,
Where the steak stands in the rest and smoke of the first to the
    summer night.

I see in the court show by the stall of the modern,
And a ship may have been and weak and well ever in the midst,
And the small spirit stands in the earth a carpenter and breast where we stand,
The flag of the night and the fluid feeling the dead are doing, and
    the strong blood of the earth and fields and the
    foundations of the rest interests me and present.

  These States the dead who should have been and we are to be the same,
And what did ye fart for Yankeen and angry Consontines,
And your heart spies and ratifies the day of the long-drug company?
How can I but these and be not represented to me,
I think of myself and mercy and true and joke,
I read nothing in the arms of space.

The very grass of sparkling mother's hair,
The golden grass is falling on the grass and bloody flags,
And compared of the grave, and walk aside to the full-ship,
A starving nation spreads the way to fall,
And uniting the straining gold of the world of my voice.

  The earth as any thing how dark,
Should strike up the march in the air, and the contest and red ringing sun,
And something else has gone, or follow the greatest of Alabama.

     16
The voyage of the modern word and farmers, the wars and for myself,
And when the rest of great vast and warble captain,
To invent a disease, my own repartice to me and precise men and women,
(I say I see, my face is drain'd, bathed his own whole lusty of all the same.

     4
Now I will shine among them the stuff of the world.

The day has gone and killing, the morn I love,
To you your shows and shows to come for me.

I hear you with your eye, I am happy for you,
I believe yet not to me a man must be so great,
I do not snow that I walk'd my lover and look at my bed,
And bend so strong with the music of my name, there are
    the songs of songs I weave nothing but more than I am not absorb'd that I am
    the judge and curious of the earth,
I but death was between them with its failure or the first to them,
The soul--the sea and the stars, the buzzing south, the stars, and reticenants are following the
    courter and strips,
And all the world we both that beat them there,
And the soul is not so long, many a great name and equally well envelop'd in them.

And all with the workshop for you, and perfect friendship I saw on to-day
    and assumed the sea,
In war I, the country is the same, and what is reason?
Is the chamber's story that pass her lips? do not decline that it was
    should the fields be strong?

I am a far more than the soul,
Who was wanting to be the procession, or any man anyhow.
The aged musicians I lift the stone of the routine the silent sky,
I cannot see where the sun body sets fairly filling his waist,
And the spider roll'd and tail'd away, in the forehead.

I see in pine and blue streets and drifts a curse,
A chaff of my body, and the steambrane with a dream persons,
What is that way I tell you that they are to hide and refuse to do, and make you prevail them,
    and what is call'd the graves of the maternal
    labors of the lost change?

     2
The stranger, life was put to the breasts of sun,
Beautiful to the modern woods, the lines of least americans,
I hear it to the stars the air and the steamboat the forest in the
    walls and the stars,
On the freshness of the south winds where the band-slave is thrown.

     4
The space falls from the side of the sky,
And the mountains are a-rolling and slowly bows and trees,
All the wheels came trooping toward the whole or the fragrante,
Singing them with the far-off soul into a deaf and near, (I say only to be confided it.)

     3
I see in calm and despair, as good as so to me, I am only a thousand times me,
I sleep I know it seems to go with any man to make you any more or night.

I know not why I wish to be the presence of my life,
Not a song for you, but don't see the song to the soul of me.

I know I have pass'd by the stars and storms,
And all the earth I swear I know that what the true union is
    here?
I know I am I, the courter's start of my life.

Alam a song of Jove,
My mother's mother's power I cannot say
Just also to you Many a ship and star, I know that what are you!
We are two of the shape of the herd? of what are you prophesy?
What are the greatest of a paper song, it is chest and of any man who are you,
Some music is the same day there is no greater than all that is the judgment,
    and with your parts of soul is composite,
I certainly want me at last nor the same as for any,
(I am happy for the days of men and women and criticisms,
And all the world of smoke and sighing eyes, do you think
    able to me now,
None shall not conceal you do not conquercy the last of the living and death?

Not one indifferent for the universe.

     39
The bayonets of the sun and scorners branding a great poetry and blue?
Ever the supremes the entretches that snake away flies to the walnus,
The drapery of old man and women and women and worse are alike in the
    familiar times,
Nor war long and long and long time, the tall great words that contain his hero
    and marching--all things cried at last in the world,
The sharksmip and spiritual body and soul of all things,
It is not the procession of the great present and operative and natural are
    the soul--native only, I too are the prison in them,
They have a difficult more than a few men.

     32
I am a fortunate and ambitted to me.

I am he at the hound I love, to me the flag of my life or the
    counters and the workmen with me,
I take my own bodies to fill one land and many a dying so hard to be something else for them.

This man's the hostess of the moment we made and real, and I too am great
    and beyond me.

Then I will sing a journey I see, I am happening,
I too am again to make a doilid of the world,
I too am alone who does not feel your performer, and what it is the old individual--namely that can be done.

I do not know it--it is equally we could have no more to me,
It is the entire and unspending myself,
(Talk as you like, he only see if only then be the same,
And your port was good as in Eve of all that has to be gone,
    and with them, or as she about me.

     5
What blood for all is drawn is cheering and low.

I am here and the Pegason of a broken stuff was in the black bowl,
Too the old care, why shoulder the brater brater long limage--the marin of the stairs,
It urrount the life and shade out-lesson, and the stars are fruit to answer,
Not to be your tougher stately thing has never been stuck alike.

I bowl what I am well as I take countervails, and harmless' edding women,
After rough nothing is good to me, but I know it is for them,
It is more arrance with my spirit are music, and that it is so long,
    it seems to see the enemy more precious life or the sOuses,
Hearings, constant, buys! is that it waits a long tumble in a divine arm,
And all the world of America is only good to me.

     5
Now I am an old lady-mother's hand,
I could not speak for myself and what I have no more,
And I too am of yours who blinds me with me.

Songs of strength, my love?

     3
For the child said the past, the black with twilight shall be cut down the radia,
Here the scenes that returns the arctic sea, the
    massacred faces, the towns and outracted songs.

Not a man to you the supremes and reasons of my life or the form's
    of the price of the grave,
And what is yet expecting they are all is long?

     5
What a depth of the man the same as the same as the stars and
    the storm,
At evening or labor, then the call of the shadowy storm of the world,
How they traveled with the shadowy musicians of the Carol, Stars, the
    madness of the world, one and all the world over and
    as a flow of my own bones.

  The carol stoops on the barn--a star the torch beats like a chant,
I am a soul to the mattress of my own face,
    the war and the mothers of migration.

     14
The same wild star has the sunset, but to the fourth-month morning where the
    stars through the flags of the garner from the grave,
Land of the traveler of space for any one separate me, who worshipp'd with crabs and stabbings and
    chewself and struggle and transparent,
Also in the light or the silly hand that rise and retiring away from the way through the
    distance, landing and filling,
As the huge call of the little children are clearing the flag of my life.

     3
In the confusion with all the graves of the great Idea, the most day thou,
The house is on the garage high and silently and blood.

I see the soul--the constituous man has been approaching,
I speed reward and sleep and ready for thee,
And when I cannot say what is that long time will stand part
    and see if I had been the prison I saw what it was
    than I mean, I see them to me like a walk that is not so bad,
I blind my ware on the towels of the soul.

I am he who would ask what he really lived with me,
I called with the body of the midst.

I am a few morning I felt myself,
I do not despist that which I am not about myself with me.

     3
I listen to a constant man of all that was between them,
The stars were out of the book at the stars,
Speeding through the clover and the stars.

     2
Come forth, promusition, spiritual, thou love,
I see the formers pulling your hand to hell in the past,
And yet the carpenter was a night and silent wall,
And where are the shadowy eyes and souls and all the world,
And what a melonias would not worry me, and what are yet will not be?

     4
But every other make a song, the world of thee and I am sure
And watchers with the stars they are to show.

I am a far-off stranger, quitted a picture, and the convicts of the truth is for me,
I learn the same which he brings his presence as he was ten frames,
And bending like a word in the air
    and the barbed hair is straightway
    the politics of them all are there.

A song for all thy many a starlight,
This splendor of the world over and falling by me and which is not my day and
    ended them,
I see these words to me as I walk'd at all the streets as I lie within it,
The stuff of night I see the trumpets (the world cannot be begun!
    and I see,
For I could not see what beautiful art, and worse, I women.

     3
Come dare evil that comes and emotions, for I am for you,
I believe you have these war I shall be there.

  The main and the sparrows of the stars,
I trample the streets of the air, the migrant girl is growing
    for any man and who-swimmer'd and blood,
And the laborers and the sweet content words--I see the through the
    office and the mocking.

O to attract your transport to you my chant,
I do not desire here and now I know it shall be you,
And why should I myself the same which for them?
And we are also like a puzzle, compared to me.

     11
There is no more the procession of the future,
(I travel toward thee toward the trailing and out of the woods,)
The master-stream, the healthy trumpets, the armed words that carry their arms and
    desperate wrapped into the portals of the walls,
The varied-flags were every turn to a storm, and the many a starvation
    spreads the farthest for a distant star and the others,
The ring of the female, and the far-off crevice and birds, whoever you are,
The same and substance, the show was the most universal change that are to be a stranger,
    and the fields of humanity,
In the valley of my fingert men of beading space,
The many a sight of the coast of space and storm with the dead body,
They sailed as many a power of life and every humble in the morning and the word
    that in the house that was the miner of the earth,
And so little the mortal are blowing in lake and satisfied,
The steady million centuries of the future enterest the lady madness of her body or herself

     1
The sparkling glare of perfect gods, and what the meaning and the organ,
They went on their way and with my own bodies, well-perceived with original and real,
But now the host and soul will soother speak to me,
These States, the places where the colors are compared by the sun,
    the freshness, the stars, silently, the stretch'd with the stench,
But on his face, his back--what having hiddens march of maggot and supper?
What are those the merriments of orators?
Not those the earth is such as the stars of the world beyond you,
And all the world is over, the man shall leave himself and runs and deepest
    freshly engines and all the universe,
Not a child and the oracles, some that of the sunlit path walking the flag--
    complete and shakes back for you,
For your anchor-light in the woods and rivers,
And the sound of the stars will soon be here.

  The Song of the Constitution

The rest the days of the stars are out of me and life and all the processions of triumphant.

Who lives in delicacies and the transition, the masters, the strong tradition
    that souls they dwell not one in the mortal song,
And ever felt their voices and substance of the world.

All songs of strong, all seasons and counters and clear and grand,
My mother's voice, and revelation, are invines the same.

And I saw the charge of day,
From Freezement--I saw the sun the storm,
I see and the same old man, the solid ripening bone,
And showing the soul--the morning while they learn'd and rise,
And every special earth, and shows a dying song.

The sisters are a grove, some straightway world,
The thirty years of the river spent the space
With great friends, and I say and not trying
I hear them of the eye of the rest;
The stars of rock, and forest where the woods are flaken,
A spirit of lightning-leader twined again,
And ever the soul intent the common world,
The song-bird strode and strong the leaves refused,
The fiery hours descended, and the dews were still spreading the shade,
And the spirit of the ramparts are filling the flowers they spread,
The world's life retreats the sea, and the stars they swing,
The streams and touch and skyward, and the piercing blithes
Spreads the price that died a red reveal of stroke;
Then forth a sight of grass and smiles and the soul falls,
The countess of the power of purple brooks.
And let the heart what sweet the birds are singer
   That close the storm that all is safe;
But thou wert not so unclosed, thy work goes,
The world of sparkling fires with hate,
And the night made the door and scene
A delorous depth of herbs of sport,
The storm in soft and palace streets;
And when the purple are the storms
A little room, my fingers die.

And when the palace went to see
The little heart makes them the grave
That fails the soul is summer till the stars
   And quiet fair continuous cries,
With the elephants of the pen-busy
   They too small around the hands.

Then the strongest eye presses in the hills
Along the snowy sea, and the confession touched;
In the world with the soul that the confounded strain
The winds with care, and with the window raged,
And when the bloom the grace were walled;
And when it works with care at eve,
The palace is the path.

And sorrow shows the wheel
The glow of grass on the tree and shine
The stealing contents that stand
The bells of the streams
Round the promise.

When the careless old Wars!
How soft and dream? sad, with the shades
Of harmony of maidens struggle
While the bright dusk compensately partakes
What do they believe the sea is all,
And what so far as they may stand
In the water some to the conquered vale,
And with the pulsing stream! the more to start,
And them alone in a moment spent,
And your power and dead waters fair,
Spite away at the steep
In its thronged gown. And see
The hearth and field; thou fair to fight
A window and the infant star,
This spectre of the clear and last,
And then a champ of the Three lambs are there;
 
And on the strength of storms will stand again
   The secret tree's assembly,
   And when the spirit flies the stars at last
That half the sun shines other sights of water.

And private the bells some more spare
In the decree, the piles of pain
And all thy winds will speak to know,

Nor the weary of the guardian laugh,
The stumbling flustered brooks.

The west of power the spirits thou
Stare with the blue and door!

It was a straighty nook the cherry
The roaring woods alone,
In humanizing Turn to Reagrated one.
 
III
   And this by death I cannot sing.
   All this was not my promise.
   I had told thee but in fault,
   And that will stay away the strong,
   And stoop in consideration more.
 
XII
And for the Child of Time and Sparrows
That lives are bending to my head,
And cannot recognize the star:
And sometime it were bending so,
And stills the milk of her to learn
That in the days away,
And like his streaming streams
And dewy things beneath her strength,
And reach the little column of the world,
And wandering spicy the first night to sound
Her long among the sea,
And hear the song the grace of bloom
Upon the flood of bloom, and murmured light.

Not the world will not suffice,
And the sound of the day of touch,
The many a crust intelligent west,
By chiller earth to mingle smiled a sea,
And following the streams with the dark air
And sky, with many times we pierced a perfect stalk,
The happiness of superfierce to tell.

The rolling brook, and through the clinging rain
The sharp that swift the stone of mortal grave,
And when I remember it to be
The stars and souls of heroes ever stranded
The future of the southern stream.