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O manhood, balanced, florid and full.
By, walt Whitman, i celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
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I am satisfied-I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall.
This is the geologist, this works with the scalper, and this is a mathematician.
We have thus far exhausted trillions of winters and summers, There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them.
You are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded, I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no, And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know.Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy?