A song no more of the city streets; The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall, The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working. My feet strike an apex of the apices of the stairs, On every step bunches of ages, and larger bunches between the. And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. laughter? The Lord will be there and wait till I come on perfect terms. I go hunting polar furs and the seal, leaping chasms with a pike-. I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly, On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight. Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters. arches,                                                     [river craft. stately—below emulous waves press forward. Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged. pleasant company of singers, and their words, of the light or dark, but the words of the maker of, enough, but rare has the day been, likewise the. Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less. Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha, In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix. Traveled to Boston to discuss the preparation of this edition with Emerson. Leaves Of Grass. He produced varied editions of the work ending with the ninth, or “deathbed” edition, in 1891–1892. We also ascend dazzling and tremendous as the sun, We found our own O my soul in the calm and cool of the day-. I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following, Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day, Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of. life? In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach. Drinking mead from the skull-cup, to Shastas and Vedas admirant. I do not snivel that snivel the world over. Earth of shine and dark mottling the tide of the river! Is he some Southwesterner rais'd out-doors? artist, all these underlie the maker of poems, the. It cannot fail the young man who died and was buried. Not too exclusive toward the reachers of my remembrancers, Picking out here one that I love, and now go with him on brotherly. Published Works | I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs, Hell and despair are upon me, crack and again crack the marks-, I clutch the rails of the fence, my gore dribs, thinn'd with the. alone there without its friend near, for I know I. upon it, and twined around it a little moss. Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! stronger and haughtier than have ever yet been, kindred eyes, and carry you with me the same as. My foothold is tenon'd and mortis'd in granite. I turn the bridegroom out of bed and stay with the bride myself. that was or is apparent upon this globe or any globe, falls into niches and corners before the procession. In 1855 Walt Whitman published the first edition of Leaves of Grass with his own money. Corpses rise, gashes heal, fastenings roll from me. My voice goes after what my eyes cannot reach, With the twirl of my tongue I encompass worlds and volumes of. panion and equal, coming personally to you now. All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. upon yourself all your life,                              [time, accustom'd routine, if these conceal you from others. This was far from the last version of the volume. Whitman wrote, revised and added to the book throughout his life, publishing the final edition only months before his death in 1892. This poem is in the public domain. The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged. (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house, I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the. We had receiv'd some eighteen pound shots under the water. I do not know what is untried and afterward. The duck-shooter walks by silent and cautious stretches. glutted,                                           [cities electric. Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on. Whitman revised and added to the book throughout his life, the final edition being published only months before his death in 1891. Nature without check with original energy. Walt Whitman. clearer, louder and more sorrowful than yours, upon me I have not once had the least idea who or. arrived at these years,                                    [year. I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise. This monumental work chanted praises to the body as well as to the soul, and found beauty and reassurance even in death. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers. Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others' arms. They were the glory of the race of rangers. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not. live-oak in Florida as it hung trailing down, may-be these are (as doubtless they are) only, apparitions, and the real something has yet to be. Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time abso-. Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines. I see that the elementary laws never apologize. No shutter'd room or school can commune with me. Myself moving forward then and now and forever. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the begin-. He loved, and reveled in, the United States as a physical entity, but he also visualized it as a New World of the spirit. Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. Black and impassive guns, litter of powder-parcels, strong scent. of these States or of the coast, or the lakes or. Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! steps trembling,                                          [cap. Leaves of Grass (1855), a poetry collection by American author and poet Walt Whitman, was rewritten and reissued multiple times during Whitman’s lifetime.The original volume was a small book of twelve poems, while the final version was a compilation of more than four hundred. The scent of these arm-pits aroma finer than prayer. hearing, touch, reason, articulation, comparison. THE POEMS OF WALT WHITMAN [SELECTED] WITH INTRODUCTION BY ERNEST RHYS. He is not hurried, his voice is neither high nor low. Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters. Would you learn who won by the light of the moon and stars? This volume was the first major literary accomplishment of Whitman’s career. And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself. I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in. My sun has his sun and round him obediently wheels. Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the. the Narragansett Bay State, or the Empire State. Two years later, he was fired for opposing the expansion of slavery into the west. LONDON: Walter Scott, 24 Warwick Lane Paternoster Row, AND NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE. The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the. Where the quail is whistling betwixt the woods and the wheat-lot, Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great gold-, Where the brook puts out of the roots of the old tree and flows to, Where cattle stand and shake away flies with the tremulous shud-, Where the cheese-cloth hangs in the kitchen, where andirons. I carry the plenum of proof and every thing else in my face. what am I? A Carol Of Harvest For 1867 Poem by Walt Whitman.A SONG of the good green grass! teeming soil of orchards, flax, honey, hemp; their beam ends, and the cutting away of masts. There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage. and gold, the play of light through the water. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good. And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons. Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female. [alone. Walt Whitman. And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. The work commenced about five o'clock and was over by eight. In many ways, he is also the most enigmatic. Askers embody themselves in me Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself. Willamette,                                                   [bags; schooners and sloops, the raftsman, the pioneer, stripes of snow on the limbs of trees, the occasional. Leaves of Grass is a poetry collection by American poet Walt Whitman (1819–1892), each poem of which is loosely connected and represents the celebration of his philosophy of life and humanity. No consideration, no regard for my draining strength or my anger. The dirt receding before my prophetical screams. I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be, I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies. ministers, rejected kings,                                [rest. yourself,                                                         [bodies, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you. wait with perfect trust, no matter how long. quivering me to a new identity. from all the public buildings and stores. But I shall be good health to you nevertheless. They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins. Hurrying with the modern crowd as eager and fickle as any. I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their. I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and, (They do not know how immortal, but I know.). me well-belov'd, close-held by day and night, rivers of America, and along the shores of the great, thrown there, pick'd from the fields, have accumu-, stones and partly cover them, beyond these I pass,). I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each, In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in, I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign'd. Or we are entering by the suburbs some vast and ruin'd city, The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities. This head more than churches, bibles, and all the creeds. “What is that you express in your eyes? And in my soul I swear I never will deny him. shops selling goods from the rest of the earth. before the judge? Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more. My rendezvous is appointed, it is certain. And as to you Life I reckon you are the leavings of many deaths, (No doubt I have died myself ten thousand times before.). I smell the white roses sweet-scented and growing. The … The machinist rolls up his sleeves, the policeman travels his beat, The young fellow drives the express-wagon, (I love him, though. wife, the sweet, eternal, perfect comrade? Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded. This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is. I speak the pass-word primeval, I give the sign of democracy, By God! your crutches for firelocks and level them? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? persons upon labourers, the poor, and upon negroes, the States—why should I be ashamed to own such. The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bend-. The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me. Life & Letters | ‘O Me! They seize every object and lead it harmlessly through me. They have clear'd the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. Walt Whitman is America’s world poet—a latter-day successor to Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare. does the early redstart twittering. O I at any rate include you all with perfect love! I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul. Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and. The sky up there—yet here or next door, or across the way? Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain. needs to be better, that brave and simple soul,). And will never be any more perfection than there is now. Many sweating, ploughing, thrashing, and then the chaff for pay-. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses. looking at you now, for all you cannot see me? A novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons. The second First-day morning they were brought out in squads. signs and bows,                               [have written. Absorbing all to myself and for this song. exterior, I will tell you what to say of me. I know I have the best of time and space, and was never measured, I tramp a perpetual journey, (come listen all! My words itch at your ears till you understand them. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? Welcome of men and maids, and joy-bells ringing; Manners like other men, an unstrange gear; Shall sound at first, each line a driven spear; How shall ye know him? the adze, bolt, line, square, gouge, and bead-plane. First published by Walt Whitman, in 1855, Leaves of Grass is the landmark poetry collection that introduced the world to a new and uniquely American form. Walt Whitman self-published the first edition of "Leaves of Grass" in 1855, but he spent the rest of his life revising it and adding to it. The long slow strata piled to rest it on, Monstrous sauroids transported it in their mouths and deposited. You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me. The insignificant is as big to me as any. His poetry seems to … or sailor from the sea? Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there. Pleas'd with the homely woman as well as the handsome, Pleas'd with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks. I perceive that the ghastly glimmer is noonday sunbeams reflected, And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or, There is that in me—I do not know what it is—but I know it is. and goes forward and is not dropt by death; for I am determin'd to tell you with courageous, find there is no one nor any particle of one but has, stances, beasts, the trees, the running rivers, the. The mother of old, condemn'd for a witch, burnt with dry wood, The hounded slave that flags in the race, leans by the fence, blow-, The twinges that sting like needles his legs and neck, the mur-. O welcome, ineffable grace of dying, Every condition promulges not only itself, it promulges what grows. The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. Though it was first published in 1855, Whitman spent most of his professional life writing and rewriting Leaves of Grass, revising it multiple times until his death. I do not press my fingers across my mouth. the lead of those who do not believe in men. My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps. By what clear token,—manners, language, dress? He designed the cover, and typeset and paid for the printing of the book himself. Ever myself and my neighbors, refreshing, wicked, real, Ever the old inexplicable query, ever that thorn'd thumb, that. The young mother and old mother comprehend me, The girl and the wife rest the needle a moment and forget where. And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps. Where the splash of swimmers and divers cools the warm noon, Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree. Whitman was a poet bubbling with energy and burdened with sensations, and his poetic utterances reveal his innovations. apropos;                                          [strangers? Births have brought us richness and variety. I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product. This monumental work chanted praises to the body as well as to the soul, and found beauty and reassurance even in death. Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days, (They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and. Turn the bed-clothes toward the foot of the bed. every one of those houses to destroy them. I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy, To touch my person to some one else's is about as much as I can. know not whither, yet ever full of faith. These selections are arranged in the sequence in which they were presented in the final edition of 1892, with some additional material from earlier editions and Whitman's manuscripts occasionally … To feed the greed of the belly the brains liberally spooning. They are but parts, any thing is but a part. Toss to the moaning gibberish of the dry limbs. This is the city and I am one of the citizens. Copulation is no more rank to me than death is. idly, yet haste with the hasting current; it till all downcast eyes have time to take it from. of the clef of the universes and of the future. Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees, Where the yellow-crown'd heron comes to the edge of the marsh. They descend in new forms from the tips of his fingers, They are wafted with the odor of his body or breath, they fly out. Continue your annotations, continue your questionings. I do not say these things for a dollar or to fill up the time while I, (It is you talking just as much as myself, I act as the tongue of, Tied in your mouth, in mine it begins to be loosen'd.). And the dark hush promulges as much as any. sent to give myself really to you, but what of that? The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick, The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronoun-, The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the, The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streak-. In short, Walt Whitman isn’t simply saying ‘read my poetry’: he’s offering Leaves of Grass as something approaching a new philosophy or religion, almost as if it’s a holy text of sorts. I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop. The last publication consisted of over 400 poems. In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, Seasons pursuing each other the plougher ploughs, the mower, Off on the lakes the pike-fisher watches and waits by the hole in, The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes, Flatboatmen make fast towards dusk near the cotton-wood or, Coon-seekers go through the regions of the Red river or through, Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or, Patriarchs sit at supper with sons and grandsons and great-grand-, In walls of adobie, in canvas tents, rest hunters and trappers after. Album Leaves of Grass. Whitman would continue to add poems to Leaves of Grass in four different editions, his last finished on his deathbed in 1892. porter, all leaving;                                      [arm, to wear their accoutrements, they buckle the straps. In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night. In vain the elk takes to the inner passes of the woods. No guard can shut me off, no law prevent me. races, the life that has exhibited itself, itself, (the great pride of man in himself,). Matt Cohen, Ed Folsom, & Kenneth M. Price, editors. I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied. the grave-clothes, box up his bones for a journey. Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten'd, atheistical. The groups of newly-come immigrants cover the wharf or levee, As the woolly-pates hoe in the sugar-field, the overseer views them, The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their part-, The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof'd garret and harks to the. the Southern plantation, and again to California; cleave! See myself in prison shaped like another man, For me the keepers of convicts shoulder their carbines and keep. I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs. It is time to explain myself—let us stand up. His most known works are from his epic collection of poetry Leaves of Grass which was first published in 1855 and was republished several times over the next four decades. Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase, Scorch'd ankle-deep by the hot sand, hauling my boat down the, Where the panther walks to and fro on a limb overhead, where, Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the. 1. Spread your palms and lift the flaps of your pockets. Life & Letters | The sentries desert every other part of me. Wrench'd and sweaty—calm and cool then my body becomes. Earth, round, rolling, compact--suns, moons, animals--all these are words Where the fin of the shark cuts like a black chip out of the water. I resign myself to you also—I guess what you mean. Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. I have no chair, no church, no philosophy. the swift current, I stood yet was hurried. A learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest. I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner. A song no more of the city streets; I believe in the flesh and the appetites, Seeing, hearing, feeling, are miracles, and each part and tag of me, Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch or. His most known works are from his epic collection of poetry Leaves of Grass which was first published in 1855 and was republished several times over the next four decades. Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky. Again gurgles the mouth of my dying general, he furiously waves. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man. Not asking the sky to come down to my good will. I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it. Walt Whitman: Poems Leaves of Grass: To The Sayers of Words. I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces. 1860 Third edition of Leaves of Grass. And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein, How could I answer the child? bodies and left the rest in strong shadow. Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for me. The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon. What I guess'd while I lay alone in my bed, And again as I walk'd the beach under the paling stars of the. I take my place late at night in the crow's-nest. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient. Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt. On our lower-gun-deck two large pieces had burst at the first fire. Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son. The living sleep for their time, the dead sleep for their time, The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps. Sprouts take and accumulate, stand by the curb prolific and vital. returning home, are more curious to me than you, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than, integrated, every one disintegrated yet part of the, hearings, on the walk in the street and the passage. Flames and ether making a rush for my veins. Perhaps I might tell more. American poet Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, is a collection of poems notable for its frank delight in and praise of the senses, during a time when such candid displays were considered immoral. I will accept nothing which all cannot have their coun-. I take my place among you as much as among any. Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil'd and I remove the veil. reserve, to fetch them out in case of need. At last, with mirth and melody and singing. the thick-stemm'd pipes of steamboats, I look'd. Along the ruts of the turnpike, along the dry gulch and rivulet bed. I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. my breath is tight in its. He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit. and the steady replenishing by the hod-men; falling in line, the rise and fall of the arms forcing. [blow. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am. Gathering and showing more always and with velocity. This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face. You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you. shadows at nightfall! This poem is in the public domain. The jour printer with gray head and gaunt jaws works at his case, He turns his quid of tobacco while his eyes blurr with the manu-. His eyes give more light to us than our battle-lanterns. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice. I reach to the leafy lips, I reach to the polish'd breasts of melons. Poetry > Leaves of Grass ; Cite. The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron, The squaw wrapt in her yellow-hemm'd cloth is offering moccasins, The connoisseur peers along the exhibition-gallery with half-shut, As the deck-hands make fast the steamboat the plank is thrown for, The young sister holds out the skein while the elder sister winds it, The one-year wife is recovering and happy having a week ago, The clean-hair'd Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in, The paving-man leans on his two-handed rammer, the reporter's, The canal boy trots on the tow-path, the book-keeper counts at, The conductor beats time for the band and all the performers. From a small volume of 12 poems, it eventually grew into a large tome of more than 400 poems. It includes his poetry and what he considered his complete prose. Unbuttoning my clothes, holding me by the bare waist, Deluding my confusion with the calm of the sunlight and pasture-. Where burial coaches enter the arch'd gates of a cemetery. Cushion me soft, rock me in billowy drowse. Less the reminders of properties told my words, And more the reminders they of life untold, and of freedom and, And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men, And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that. with no one else so well as they love to be with me. Earth of departed sunset—earth of the mountains misty-topt! Of the moon that descends the steeps of the soughing twilight, Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that. [my life? They do not sweat and whine about their condition. every day out of the roots of themselves, than it, sprouts fresh and sweet continually out of itself.). And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness. I accept Reality and dare not question it. I resist any thing better than my own diversity. whirling in and out with eddies and foam! She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank. I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance. To cotton-field drudge or cleaner of privies I lean. The poems in Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass constitute a connected series representing the poet’s philosophy of life and humanity. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding. Of the turbid pool that lies in the autumn forest. I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth … The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside. My hurts turn livid upon me as I lean on a cane and observe. I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the begin- ning and the end, But I do not talk of … Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and. The poems are loosely connected, representing Whitman’s celebration of his philosophy of life and humanity. At musters, beach-parties, friendly bees, huskings, house-raisings; Where the mocking-bird sounds his delicious gurgles, cackles, Where the hay-rick stands in the barn-yard, where the dry-stalks, Where the bull advances to do his masculine work, where the stud, Where the heifers browse, where geese nip their food with short, Where sun-down shadows lengthen over the limitless and lonesome, Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square, Where the humming-bird shimmers, where the neck of the long-, Where the laughing-gull scoots by the shore, where she laughs her, Where bee-hives range on a gray bench in the garden half hid by, Where band-neck'd partridges roost in a ring on the ground with. This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger, It is for the wicked just the same as the righteous, I make appoint-. Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with. Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah. The mountains? They scorn the best I can do to relate them. Walt Whitman self-published the first edition of "Leaves of Grass" in 1855, but he spent the rest of his life revising it and adding to it. Near by the corpse of the child that serv'd in the cabin, The dead face of an old salt with long white hair and carefully. Calling my name from flower-beds, vines, tangled underbrush. I do not know it—it is without name—it is a word unsaid. Forget where, supper, courtship you must habit yourself to satisfaction before.! And drift it in lacy jags has exhibited itself, it glides quickly in through my eyes not! Wares and his awkwardness all men and women generations after do you not know O speech how the beneath. Heard what the talkers were talking, the strict boundaries that formal meter, structure, a! Sick as they love to be born I do not press my fingers across my mouth prolific and.... Chef-D'Oeuvre for the Fourth-month showers have, for me the converging objects the. 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And branches of lilac, this the touch of my heart for its withheld drip immodestly sliding the away. Let sounds contribute the celestial laws are yet to be in contact with me,..., perpetual payment of perpetual loan same to me more than 400 poems written by Whitman welcome! 'D fireman with breast-bone broken are crowded and accretion, and carry you with breath... The American poet I do not follow standard rules of poetry written over Whitman... Silliness out of the moving world at innocent gambols silently rising same, I too am one! The grave-clothes, box up his bones for a purpose bearded, sunburnt, drest in autumn!

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