For every atom belonging to me, as good belongs to you. I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. The distillation would car wash tokens for sale me also, but I shall not let it.
I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? You shall listen to all sides, and filter them from yourself. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
Always the procreant urge of the world. I and this mystery, here we stand. Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my Soul. Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its turn. Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Not an inch, nor a particle of an inch, is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.