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The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the same old law. I wonder where they get those tokens, Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them? Again the long roll of the drummers, Again the attacking cannon, mortars, Again to my listening ears the cannon responsive. I am the poet of the woman the same as the man, And I say it is as great to be a woman as to be a man, And I say there is nothing greater than the mother of men. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me, And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. Why should I pray? I am he that walks with the tender and growing night, I call to the earth and sea half-held by the night. I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. 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 I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes, That they turn from gazing after and down the road, And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent, Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead? Which of the young men does she like the best? Our frigate takes fire, The other asks if we demand quarter? Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting. Mix'd tussled hay of head, beard, brawn, it shall be you!

Caro ohio registered sex offenders

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. 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 time; You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle. Now I laugh content, for I hear the voice of my little captain, We have not struck, he composedly cries, we have just begun our part of the fighting. The earth by the sky staid with, the daily close of their junction, The heav'd challenge from the east that moment over my head, The mocking taunt, See then whether you shall be master! Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? Trickling sap of maple, fibre of manly wheat, it shall be you! Come now I will not be tantalized, you conceive too much of articulation, Do you not know O speech how the buds beneath you are folded? A minute and a drop of me settle my brain, I believe the soggy clods shall become lovers and lamps, And a compend of compends is the meat of a man or woman, And a summit and flower there is the feeling they have for each other, And they are to branch boundlessly out of that lesson until it becomes omnific, And until one and all shall delight us, and we them. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. So they show their relations to me and I accept them, They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession. Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self. My ties and ballasts leave me, my elbows rest in sea-gaps, I skirt sierras, my palms cover continents, I am afoot with my vision. I am he attesting sympathy, Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them? A word of the faith that never balks, Here or henceforward it is all the same to me, I accept Time absolutely. They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd. Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. My brain it shall be your occult convolutions! 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. This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. And to those themselves who sank in the sea! They do not sweat and whine about their condition, They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth. Where are you off to, lady? Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

Caro ohio registered sex offenders

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7 thoughts on “Caro ohio registered sex offenders

  1. From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place. Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.

  2. There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. The tops alone second the fire of this little battery, especially the main-top, They hold out bravely during the whole of the action.

  3. Retreating they had form'd in a hollow square with their baggage for breastworks, Nine hundred lives out of the surrounding enemies, nine times their number, was the price they took in advance, Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone, They treated for an honorable capitulation, receiv'd writing and seal, gave up their arms and march'd back prisoners of war. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

  4. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

  5. Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

  6. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose? Through me the afflatus surging and surging, through me the current and index.

  7. Logic and sermons never convince, The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera, Ah this indeed is music--this suits me.

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