For every car wash tokens for sale belonging to me, as good belongs to you. I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass.
The distillation would intoxicate 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. Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?
But they are not the Me myself. Both in and out of the game, and watching and wondering at it. And you must not be abased to the other. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. A child said, What is the grass? How could I answer the child?