Üames the storm and the red river of the world [Full Poem] [Temp 0.502]

Üames the storm and the red river of the world,
    the stumps of poems, a-composite of the fairgrounds,
    the least song of the masters,
The crush of swans of steamboats, scarlet deepest, the mother's heart,
    the scornful shadows of the mountains and red and port,
    and swims and flashing of the stars.

  After this the sun itself,
The soul is so strong and faithful home.

No more a season gives the sea,
And the spirit of the soul, as I will surely be an elk,
By all the lives of the seasons and the great compact of the earth,
    and the stars and steel and the squadrons,
The squaw I live in any man who shall be true
Is here to do with a land of the soul,
The while the stars will not be sung in the call of the woods,
The south winds blowing the dusk and the stars around the broad bay--
    the stretch of the warble power and the bullets,
Where the proud whole man has controlled with the land of the world,
    it waits for the scene,
The soul--the city's voice and the belly--they sought to be the words that were not the faces and
    entered themselves,
We are the world over and in the sea, and the stars are to the ground,
The sagacious ring with his strength fell to the walks, the tree is to be the foreign love,
It falls from the full street and through the earth and death, the most very song and
    bloody crown and the stars and
    coasts that wait, and the sky was born,
Who has closed to speak with me and deed in the morning and be sunk in the
    other streets, or wonderful performers,
    and night, and what is the same.

     6
The sun must I see you with the steady and circuit,
And the son of the strength of the block of the future.

  The same son of savage beauty, and thy sad friendship,
I chant I lie with an arrow in the side,
The meaning of his sake, the price of the supremes,
The promise, the march, out of the heart of the earth,
These are the rest of the rest, the great dreams of the stars and
    the shadowy stars,
The sacred instruments of the world, the clinging call,
The stature, the dead of all the rest, the war and the wars,
The soul--the meanness of the surfaced sprig of strangers,
The many a drop of the strong words to them all towns.

  The San Migastary These

The soul is at the earth with bloody bands,
And when the song without a chair that made me pass,
And seek the praise of all the same.

I see the virgin of my troubled man,
A stranger in the world, in a horse
With laughter on the sea,
And blowing up the stars to start,
And the world of heart and clover.
 
XXI

I want a while I like a strength of strong,
And a white cloud on the streets,
And all the flowers the silence waits to stare,
And start along the woods of many a sleep;
And then the trembling winds be harmless,
And the river in the face of state
The winds of pole, and the career lies,
   And she was article we was there.

The pomp of the downful flies
The trumpets and the figure and glow,
His throne and beauty only wanders,
And now she trembled him to the lamp,
And stretch and some and down, with swallows flower
The flies of all the morning darksome night,
The stealing of the hours of meadows stand,
Till he could shake away the starry shade,
And stand in palm in him, and there
In the sun hills scarce the crown of stone.
Then heard the stronger scrapes his course;
Carefully spun. So the Chastity,
A flower of skilful tortures of the meadow.
I wonder that he was so stranger,
But still the word that ever borned the storm.
The listening in the darkness, strayed to reason
To curls the sacred chemistry stone,
And there a rose of gallant wounds
The power so singing to the foul winds strow,
And the good walls who come their pains and dares:
And I will speak to your hand again,
And still the world was speaking wide
To die and there were protecting here,
And the sound of the stars.

The flowers are touched the soul that reaches thee,
And all the lights their thoughts are kind,
And wandered homeless streaming butter,
The beautiful meanness of the stars
That is the radiance of the world.

He beats the champagne, the strongest horror of the morn
And all the streams of wonders spinning through the dark
To close the barn around the bars and the storm,
And the first flute of the sun shines only there.