Countdown to craziness 2014 introductions for essays
Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss youwith a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. One of that centripetal and centrifugal gang I turn and talk likeman leaving charges before a journey. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt.
I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you; The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the greatSecretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold, The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle, As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by thejingling of loose change, The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning theroof, the masons are calling for mortar, In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers;Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, itis the fourth of Seventh-month, what salutes of cannon and small arms! On women fit for conception I start bigger and nimbler babes.
- I seize the descending man and raise him with resistless will, O despairer, here is my neck, By God, you shall not go down! I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blanketshanging from their shoulders, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriantbeard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locksdescended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt.
- Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of everymoment of your life. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt.
- By the city's quadrangular houses--in log huts, camping with lumber-men, Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed, Weeding my onion-patch or hosing rows of carrots and parsnips, crossing savannas, trailing in forests, Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase, Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down theshallow river, Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where thebuck turns furiously at the hunter, Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where theotter is feeding on fish, Where the alligator in his tough pimples sleeps by the bayou, Where the black bear is searching for roots or honey, where thebeaver pats the mud with his paddle-shaped tall;Over the growing sugar, over the yellow-flower'd cotton plant, overthe rice in its low moist field, Over the sharp-peak'd farm house, with its scallop'd scum andslender shoots from the gutters, Over the western persimmon, over the long-leav'd corn, over thedelicate blue-flower flax, Over the white and brown buckwheat, a hummer and buzzer there withthe rest, Over the dusky green of the rye as it ripples and shades in the breeze;Scaling mountains, pulling myself cautiously up, holding on by lowscragged limbs, Walking the path worn in the grass and beat through the leaves of the brush, Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot, Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the greatgoldbug drops through the dark, Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows tothe meadow, Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulousshuddering of their hides, Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons straddlethe hearth-slab, where cobwebs fall in festoons from the rafters;Where trip-hammers crash, where the press is whirling its cylinders, Wherever the human heart beats with terrible throes under its ribs, Where the pear-shaped balloon is floating aloft, floating in itmyself and looking composedly down, Where the life-car is drawn on the slip-noose, where the heathatches pale-green eggs in the dented sand, Where the she-whale swims with her calf and never forsakes it, Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke, Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water, Where the half-burn'd brig is riding on unknown currents, Where shells grow to her slimy deck, where the dead are corrupting below;Where the dense-starr'd flag is borne at the head of the regiments, Approaching Manhattan up by the long-stretching island, Under Niagara, the cataract falling like a veil over my countenance, Upon a door-step, upon the horse-block of hard wood outside, Upon the race-course, or enjoying picnics or jigs or a good game ofbase-ball, At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter, At the cider-mill tasting the sweets of the brown mash, sucking thejuice through a straw, At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find, At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings;Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles, screams, weeps, Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks arescatter'd, where the brood-cow waits in the hovel, Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud tothe mare, where the cock is treading the hen, Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short jerks, Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome prairie, Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square milesfar and near, Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-livedswan is curving and winding, Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs hernear-human laugh, Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by thehigh weeds, Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground withtheir heads out, Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery, Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees, Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh atnight and feeds upon small crabs, Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon, Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree overthe well, Through patches of citrons and cucumbers with silver-wired leaves, Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs, Through the gymnasium, through the curtain'd saloon, through theoffice or public hall;Pleas'd with the native and pleas'd with the foreign, pleas'd withthe new and old, Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome, Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously, Pleas'd with the tune of the choir of the whitewash'd church, Pleas'd with the earnest words of the sweating Methodist preacher, impress'd seriously at the camp-meeting;Looking in at the shop-windows of Broadway the whole forenoon, flatting the flesh of my nose on the thick plate glass, Wandering the same afternoon with my face turn'd up to the clouds, or down a lane or along the beach, My right and left arms round the sides of two friends, and I in the middle;Coming home with the silent and dark-cheek'd bush-boy, behind mehe rides at the drape of the day, Far from the settlements studying the print of animals' feet, or themoccasin print, By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient, Nigh the coffin'd corpse when all is still, examining with a candle;Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure, Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any, Hot toward one I hate, ready in my madness to knife him, Solitary at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while, Walking the old hills of Judaea with the beautiful gentle God by my side, Speeding through space, speeding through heaven and the stars, Speeding amid the seven satellites and the broad ring, and thediameter of eighty thousand miles, Speeding with tail'd meteors, throwing fire-balls like the rest, Carrying the crescent child that carries its own full mother in its belly, Storming, enjoying, planning, loving, cautioning, Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing, I tread day and night such roads. Through me forbidden voices, Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil, Voices indecent by me clarified and transfigur'd. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt.
Countdown To Craziness 2014 Introductions For Essays - The Story
Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower mows, and the winter-grain falls in the ground;Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole inthe frozen surface, The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deepwith his axe, Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or pecan-trees, Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or throughthose drain'd by the Tennessee, or through those of the Arkansas, Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw, Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grandsonsaround them, In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers aftertheir day's sport, The city sleeps and the country sleeps, The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife;And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them, And such as it is to be of these more or less I am, And of these one and all I weave the song of myself.
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Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, Ireceive them the same. Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss youwith a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt. To link to this poem, put the URL below into your page: Song of Myself by Walt.