The ministers of ashes of the soul [Full Poem] [Temp. 0652]

way, it seemed,
And laugh the boy to me with perfume or the sea,
And I have lost the little child to sea-fade,
And the soul is curring and the shadowy wilds hear and bloom
In the light a hollow flash-eyed lineage of the living silently,
And the filthy trail when blessed where the sea of the red neck was back.

Far from the city's high lightsneck of the road,
And the fierce enlights the roar of the grass is the same,
Press'd forth--they know the divine spots of power and all the titles and the landscape.

All I sing.

The last thing I heard the best of them,
And a son that comes and ranks, or crawling a house,
Passing through the children's field of the bull's eyelids,
These wit field with cheeks and flowers, the trees of the flowers.

The ministers of ashes of the soul of the singers and
    works,
Night or with the scheme of the brothers and the good of my soul,
Here shall cling forth from the conquerest of the modern,
And what is reason? and not one indivisible mystery;
(I am a few roads of the thieffan'd stream?
The many a boat of an investol youth,
The flames will prevail here or never will tell you indicates
    for my captives, yet there are no processions of odours,
Not a memory of construction.

I am a free companion of sand,
I changed my hand toward the close of the woods,
A million lines and steamships and steamboats and the walls, the
    rustling of the waters.

A crucifixion of sprightly with a star in the slumber--the crowd is
    shipping and duly trees,
Where the sun and spirit as far as peaches the nations waiting to felt them,
    their ample harpoondest womanhood,
The currer that works on the bowels and the universe may win'ouge,
Adorn them, the main storehouses, thee is not so glorious and resistless storeful hollow south,
The procession of the place of the stars, its bones and county and sea-bill,
The future of the bandages continued, and all the workshops,
The crispent streets of bayaders with the crimson showers, yet always rising
    and bathed and tongue,
The march inward the average walls.

  The mother of our least the future,
Thy soul to fallow, they sought to see, in every thought,
From the war-ship for the travell'd soul, by the same old lady bombers,
At the strength of my soul interminably from the fetid bag of the earth,
And the morning with the track, the rougher wave, and now the flare of the night,
The ploughland of the screaming in the darkness, the strange patients are,
    their crimes and offsprings, the living and future and more
    work of the indissoluble pressing,
All is good enough, what is it the mare with it retreats to me,
The rest for any one of them that is the soul into myself,
(They live in the midst of ages,)
As I think we are to seize me now, and have I bestow'd you, but I do not deal with
    their own O myself,
You are here--to stand apologize, for all the living are to spend me,
I see the house is the origin, I too am understood,
The day-long child with square indifferent from me.

I too am not a breath of arms to be a dried,
To control marrying myself, (say, the same, I say of life are lovers of your
    mouths hold on the same to walk.

I hear and here and here and here and here and town the torrent gat have and ever
    the maring of the Earth and men, to add them death.

I do not see every other than this America is on the sturd that are not sure to make them.

Partaker of these States with veins full of winds,
The younger first I behold the prowd with the great Caronala.

The lakes of the modern word Charge! more picturesmen,
It is I form'd, mercy, pier not, from the conquerers showing them.

     3
Oh it is I knew what hast thou been studied there!
You love to be your laten love, I ascend forth and laughing shape,
And my work is this thing how can I be so done?

Nothing is going only what you stand and love you,
I know that we back amid the other ware, the long and the creation lies at my lands,
I know you cannot tell it where my eyes behold me.

     34
Not to Idoa Does America, (the processions of the flowers and
    youth, they are the mothers, and for all we would be their
    part of the like and themselves.

     10
Alone I like thee at last in them,
For I am fear to understand it so I could ever really see if I am,
And you must not the master-mark that serve you did not know much as I lie.

     3
I litter not to an organ at all words, like a good one,
But I must not ask what the world may stand and let there,
And for a minute and sister come out to me,
The living and whole of them that makes me the spirit of the river,
And all who controlled with the soul into a rosal, what is love?
The Roman Buffalo World of Arkansas to the George Japanese that considering me.

     18
Frolting that thou with these and early space into the sun!
More real those who have struggling all the world over the new-born?
Henceforth I've the right through gate, and do not know what you are all the dazzles.)

     10
The varied products of my day or squinting time!
Not a sickness of my love while they are not my life.

     3
From the ancholing courtesian light of the world,
Down and down the bars of his breath surround me.

A changour setting blood to me the same assist of the masters,
Of the tents, the stars and the past, the forests of the bullet west,
And when the aurors of the neighbors of the sun,
And the fields of the march in any chance, what a wait to spare.

  The last of the blocks of your breast and smoke of the farmers,
It droops along the water, the ocean's stroke, the loud one stands with
    the mighty bukows on his porch and passing,
The steamboat walks by the hazel, the sound of the south every thing.

  The grave of the road of pain and part,
Recribing, through mistake, and revolt, the breath of the
    brightness, of the mare and men and women I love,
And who are the same old man so give me purpose, and I am the brother of the
    dead to and fro,
Her farmers with all his country in the darkness of your skill.