A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms. Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man. Taunt my dizzy ears and beat me violently over the head with whip-stocks. Extoller of amies and those that sleep in each others’ arms. Why do I need your paces when I myself out-gallop them? I am an acme of things accomplish’d, and I an encloser of things to be. It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps. But I do not talk of the beginning or the end. Where the steam-ship trails hind-ways its long pennant of smoke. Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov’d. And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it. Backing and filling, appearing and disappearing. Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am. You villain touch! Es ist jeder Song of myself walt whitman meaning jederzeit im Internet auf Lager und kann direkt gekauft werden. Each who passes is consider’d, each who stops is consider’d, not a single one can it fail. Ten o’clock at night, the full moon well up, our leaks on the gain, and five feet of water reported. That which fills its period and place is equal to any. And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away. Turbulent, fleshy, sensual, eating, drinking and breeding. (Shall I make my list of things in the house and skip the house that supports them?). The clean-hair’d Yankee girl works with her sewing-machine or in the factory or mill. Ever love, ever the sobbing liquid of life. There was never any more inception than there is now. The stumps stand thick round the clearing, the squatter strikes deep with his axe. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord. Breathe the air but leave plenty after me. To his work without flinching the accoucheur comes. I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth. People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and city I live in, or the nation. The poem means so many things to so many different people, and its diversity and openness are its greatest strength. The youth lies awake in the cedar-roof’d garret and harks to the musical rain. becoming already a creator. '', Eu nunca estive tão perto da verdade até entãoEu toquei seu revestimento prateado, A morte é a vencedora em qualquer guerraNão há nada de nobre em morrer por sua religiãoPelo seu paísPor ideologia, por féPor outro homem, sim, O papel está morto sem palavrasA tinta é imóvel sem um poemaTodo o mundo morto sem históriasSem amor e beleza desarmante, Já viu o Senhor sorrir?Todo o cuidado pelo mundo fez um homem triste belo?Por que ainda carregamos um dispositivo de tortura em nossos pescoços?Oh, quão podre seu pré-apocalipse éTodos vocês tolos de bíblias negras vivendo sobre uma terra de pesadelos, Eu vejo todos aqueles berços vazios e me perguntoSe o homem nunca irá mudar, Eu, também, desejo ser um homem decente mas tudo o que souÉ fumaça e espelhosAinda considerando tudo, talvez eu seja digno, E lá para sempre permanece a mudança de sol para mi menor, Música começa com letras © 2003 - 2021, 2.9 milhões de letras de músicas Feito com amor em Belo Horizonte. His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over his hip-band. Believing I shall come again upon the earth after five thousand years. At he-festivals, with blackguard gibes, ironical license, bull-dances, drinking, laughter. And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years. All the care for the world made Beautiful a sad man? A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me. And make short account of neuters and geldings, and favor men and women fully equipt. Now I tell what I knew in Texas in my early youth. Ever the eaters and drinkers, ever the upward and downward sun, ever the air and the ceaseless tides. Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night. long live exact demonstration! I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice. I do not call one greater and one smaller. A gigantic beauty of a stallion, fresh and responsive to my caresses. This is the meal equally set, this the meat for natural hunger. Count ever so much, there is limitless time around that. I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin. for I see you. The Wolverine sets traps on the creek that helps fill the Huron. One could spend years unpacking them all, … I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms. Wherever he goes men and women accept and desire him. I fly those flights of a fluid and swallowing soul. I am the mash’d fireman with breast-bone broken. For after we start we never lie by again. She dreams of storytime and the river ghosts. Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes. Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest. "Song of Myself" is a poem by Walt Whitman (1819–1892) that is included in his work Leaves of Grass. Raving harlequins, gigantic toys. The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of the supremes. Howler and scooper of storms, capricious and dainty sea. And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d universe. The past and present wilt—I have fill’d them, emptied them. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there. I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked. I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals. I am not to be denied, I compel, I have stores plenty and to spare. The mate stands braced in the whale-boat, lance and harpoon are ready. They neither hasten their own delivery nor resist it. I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy. Thoughts and deeds of the present our rouse and early start. The dirt receding before my prophetical screams. It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men. In vain the snake slides through the creepers and logs. The wonder is always and always how there can be a mean man or an infidel. The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready. The nightingale is still locked in the cage, The deep breath I took still poisons my lungs, She dreams of storytime and the river ghosts, All that great heart lying still and slowly dying, All that great heart lying still on an angelwing, Smiling like a clown until the show has come to an end, I'd still give my everything to love you more, I see a slow, simple youngster by a busy street, Trying to smile but hurting infinitely, nbody notices, An old man gets naked and kisses a model-doll in his attic, When he finally cums his eyes are cascading, I see a beaten dog in a pungent alley. The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs. are you the President? Where winter wolves bark amid wastes of snow and icicled trees. Bearded, sunburnt, drest in the free costume of hunters. Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them? I have instant conductors all over me whether I pass or stop. First published in 1855, Whitman made extensive revisions to the book, changing titles, motifs, and adding whole poems until 1881, and tinkering further until his death in 1892. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil. What do you think has become of the young and old men? What behaved well in the past or behaves well to-day is not such a wonder. Not a mutineer walks handcuff’d to jail but I am handcuff’d to him and walk by his side, (I am less the jolly one there, and more the silent one with sweat on my twitching lips.). I see in them and myself the same old law. Still nodding night—mad naked summer night. I teach straying from me, yet who can stray from me? Night of south winds—night of the large few stars! I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Blind loving wrestling touch, sheath’d hooded sharp-tooth’d touch! Of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion. A statue of porcelain perfection beside a violent city kill. Space and Time! It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast. The mayor and councils, banks, tariffs, steamships, factories, stocks, stores, real estate and personal estate. The black ship mail’d with iron, her mighty guns in her turrets—but the pluck of the captain and engineers? And debouch to the steady and central from the offspring great or small. This minute that comes to me over the past decillions. Whatever goes to the tilth of me it shall be you! I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. In vain the plutonic rocks send their old heat against my approach. Cycles ferried my cradle, rowing and rowing like cheerful boatmen. My flesh and blood playing out lightning to strike what is hardly different from myself. Not one escaped to tell the fall of Alamo, The hundred and fifty are dumb yet at Alamo,). In vain objects stand leagues off and assume manifold shapes. Todo o cuidado pelo mundo fez um homem triste belo? Where the katy-did works her chromatic reed on the walnut-tree over the well. Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? Their colonel was wounded and their ammunition gone. Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side. Nigh the coffin’d corpse when all is still, examining with a candle; Voyaging to every port to dicker and adventure. I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. Only the lull I like, the hum of your valvèd voice. You will hardly know who I am or what I mean. ", I've never been so close to truth as thenI touched it's silver lining, Death is the winner in any warNothing noble in dying for your religionFor your countryFor ideology, for faithFor another man, yes, Paper is dead without wordsInk idle without a poemAll the world dead without storiesWithout love and disarming beauty, Ever seen the Lord smile?All the care for the world made Beautiful a sad man?Why do we still carry a device of torture around our necks?Oh, how rotten your pre-apocalypse isAll you bible-black fools living over nightmare ground, I see all those empty cradles and wonderIf man will never change, I, too, wish to be a decent manboy but all I amIs smoke and mirrorsStill given everything, may I be deserving, And there forever remains the change from G to E minor, O rouxinol ainda está preso na gaiolaO profundo fôlego que tomo ainda envenena meus pulmõesUm velho carvalho me dando abrigo da tristezaO sol banhando suas folhas mortas congeladas, Uma soneca na cidade fantasma do meu coraçãoEla sonha com a hora da história e com os fantasmas do rioCom as sereias, com Whitman e o passeioArlequins loucos, brinquedos gigantescos, Uma canção de mim, uma canção na necessidadeDe uma sinfonia corajosaUm verso de mim, um verso na necessidadeDe um coração puro me cantando para a paz, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quieto e morrendo lentamenteTodo aquele grande coração deitado quieto nas asas de um anjo, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quietoNum sofrimento silenciosoSorrindo como um palhaço até que o espetáculo chegue ao fimO que resta para um bisÉ a mesma velha canção do menino mortoCantada em silêncio, Um vôo à meia-noite às Florestas de CovingtonUma princesa e uma pantera ao meu ladoEstes são territórios pelos quais eu vivoEu ainda daria tudo de mim para te amar mais, Uma sinfonia silenciosaUma composição vazia, 1, 2, 3, As vezes o céu é preto pianoPreto piano sobre águas cristalinas, Pipas descansando, verso de aborrecimentoChaves enferrujadas sem uma porta, As vezes o interior é preto pianoPreto piano sobre águas cristalinas, Eu vejo um vagaroso e simples rapaz em uma rua movimentadaCom uma tigela em sua mão trêmulaTentando sorrir mas se ferindo infinitamente. Where the rattlesnake suns his flabby length on a rock, where the otter is feeding on fish. Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there. I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love. The negro that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece. Prospecting, gold-digging, girdling the trees of a new purchase. Unrequited love or a slight cutting him worse than sharp steel cuts. And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times. Tumbling walls buried me in their debris. How the silent old-faced infants and the lifted sick, and the sharp-lipp’d unshaved men; All this I swallow, it tastes good, I like it well, it becomes mine. And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me. I keep as delicate around the bowels as around the head and heart. I find one side a balance and the antipodal side a balance. The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings. The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches. ", I've never been so close to truth as then. It is the concluding couplet of Song #6: All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die … Song of Myself constrói-se como parte do discurso de um sujeito atuante, que se constitui na fusão do fora/dentro e seus entornos e através de uma linguagem. Email. Did you fear some scrofula out of the unflagging pregnancy? (The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place. And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d feet. And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. The mother of old, condemn’d for a witch, burnt with dry wood, her children gazing on. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known. Let the physician and the priest go home. I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. Song of Myself, 52. I do not know what it is any more than he. For me children and the begetters of children. I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load. They do not hasten, each man hits in his place. The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom. The saints and sages in history—but you yourself? I help myself to material and immaterial. Song of Myself Songtext von Nightwish. The 1st thing I ever heard was a wandering, Roaming the rainy roads, combing the guided beaches, Waking up to a new gallery of wonders every morning, Clad in nothing but the self - beauty's finest robe, Beyond all mortality we are, swinging in the breath of nature, I would pass no man, no stranger, no tragedy or rapture, (While violated and imprisoned by technology), The thought of my family's graves was the only moment, "Is there a village inside this snowflake? This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning. Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Limbs glossy and supple, tail dusting the ground. I have embraced you, and henceforth possess you to myself. I will share mine. And in due time you shall repay the same service to me. If they are not the riddle and the untying of the riddle they are nothing. The young mechanic is closest to me, he knows me well. I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake. Pleas’d with the quakeress as she puts off her bonnet and talks melodiously. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes. I visit the orchards of spheres and look at the product. They have clear’d the beams away, they tenderly lift me forth. Analysis of the poem. The heav’d challenge from the east that moment over my head. Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change. It is not nearly as heavy-handed in its pronouncements as “Starting at Paumanok”; rather, Whitman uses symbols and sly commentary to get at important issues. The blocks and fallen architecture more than all the living cities of the globe. And of the rights of them the others are down upon. I am he bringing help for the sick as they pant on their backs. The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the hospital. Wider and wider they spread, expanding, always expanding. Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill’d game. Voices of sexes and lusts, voices veil’d and I remove the veil. Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house. That I could look with a separate look on my own crucifixion and bloody crowning. I but enter by them to an area of my dwelling. Little streams pass’d all over their bodies. If you do not say any thing how can I say any thing? 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 wear my hat as I please indoors or out. The old husband sleeps by his wife and the young husband sleeps by his wife; And these tend inward to me, and I tend outward to them. The damp of the night drives deeper into my soul. hang your whole weight upon me. And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known! By God, you shall not go down! It is time to explain myself—let us stand up. Making a fetich of the first rock or stump, powowing with sticks in the circle of obis. I know every one of you, I know the sea of torment, doubt, despair and unbelief. On the night ere the pending battle many seek me, and I do not fail them. Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary. And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my feet. Behaving licentious toward me, taking no denial. I ascend from the moon, I ascend from the night. Ele tenta me morderTodo o orgulho deixou seus olhos selvagensQuera ter minha perna para dar, Uma mãe visita seu filho, sorri para ele através das gradesEla nunca o amou tanto, Uma garota árabe entra no elevador comigoToda vestida extravagantemente, uma borboleta verde em seu pescoçoSeu perfume terrivelmente doce me atordoaEla vai jantar sozinhaIsso a torna ainda mais bela, Vejo a face de uma modelo em uma parede de tijolosUma estátua de porcelana perfeita ao lado de um assassinato de uma cidade violentaUma cidade que idolatra carne, A primeira coisa que ouvi foi um homema caminhar contando sua históriaEra você, a grama sob meus pés descalçosA fogueira na calada da noiteO escuro celestial do céu e do mar, Éramos nosPerambulando pelas estradas chuvosas, vasculhando as praias guiadasAcordando para uma nova galeria de maravilhas a cada manhãBanhando-se em lugares que ninguém viu antesNáufragos em alguma ilha pintada a mateVestidos em nada mais do que eles mesmos - o melhor manto da beleza, Além de toda imortalidade estamos, balançando no respirar da naturezaNo jovem ar da aurora da vidaUma visão para silenciar os céus, Quero viajar onde a vida viajaSeguindo sua eterna liderançaOnde o ar tem gosto de música lentaOnde a grama cheira como o Éden recém nascidoEu não passaria por nenhum homem, nenhum estranho, nenhuma tragédia ou arrebatamentoEu me banharia em um mundo de sensaçãoAmor, bondade e simplicidade(Enquanto violado e aprisionado pela tecnologia), O lembrança das sepulturas da minha família foi o único momentoQue eu vivenciava amor verdadeiroAquele amor permanece infinitoPois nunca serei o homem que meu pai é. Como você pode ''ser apenas você mesmo''Quando você não sabe quem você é?Pare de dizer ''eu sei como você se sente''Como poderia alguém saber como o outro se sente? On that solemn night (it may be their last) those that know me seek me. All you bible-black fools living over nightmare ground, I, too, wish to be a decent manboy but all I am, Still given everything, may I be deserving, O profundo fôlego que tomo ainda envenena meus pulmões, Um velho carvalho me dando abrigo da tristeza, O sol banhando suas folhas mortas congeladas, Uma soneca na cidade fantasma do meu coração, Ela sonha com a hora da história e com os fantasmas do rio, Uma canção de mim, uma canção na necessidade, De um coração puro me cantando para a paz, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quieto e morrendo lentamente, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quieto nas asas de um anjo, Todo aquele grande coração deitado quieto, Sorrindo como um palhaço até que o espetáculo chegue ao fim, Um vôo à meia-noite às Florestas de Covington, Estes são territórios pelos quais eu vivo, Eu ainda daria tudo de mim para te amar mais, Pipas descansando, verso de aborrecimento, Eu vejo um vagaroso e simples rapaz em uma rua movimentada. I loafe and invite my Soul; I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. The sharp-hoof’d moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women. It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess’d them. Walt Whitman is America’s world poet—a latter-day successor to Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare. I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride by the hand. Delicate sniffs of sea-breeze, smells of sedgy grass and fields by the shore, death-messages given in charge to survivors. And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own. I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The bugle calls in the ball-room, the gentlemen run for their partners, the dancers bow to each other. Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha. Did you guess the celestial laws are yet to be work’d over and rectified? The drover watching his drove sings out to them that would stray, The pedler sweats with his pack on his back, (the purchaser higgling about the odd cent;). SONG OF MYSELF. Infinite and omnigenous, and the like of these among them. timorous pond-snipe! The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats. Two well serv’d with grape and canister silence his musketry and clear his decks. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble. Through the salt-lick or orange glade, or under conical firs. The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds, It coaxes me to the vapor and the … And have distanced what is behind me for good reasons. Every room of the house do I fill with an arm’d force. Eyes full of sparkling wickedness, ears finely cut, flexibly moving. There are trillions ahead, and trillions ahead of them. Then all uniting to stand on a headland and worry me. In the poem “Song of Myself” Walt Whitman identifies himself as more than a poet, but as a mystic as well. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort’s bombardment. They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers. We had receiv’d some eighteen pound shots under the water. I swear I will never again mention love or death inside a house. Then, I encourage you to identify a favorite song, or even a favorite line or moment. To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow. Where herds of buffalo make a crawling spread of the square miles far and near. Askers embody themselves in me and I am embodied in them. Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Listener up there! Walking the teokallis, spotted with gore from the stone and knife, beating the serpent-skin drum. The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the best, and be as prodigious; By my life-lumps! A boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye; At home on Kanadian snow-shoes or up in the bush, or with fishermen off Newfoundland. Quem sou eu para julgar um padre, mendigoProstituta, político, malfeitor?Eu já sou, você já é todos eles, Querida criança, pare de trabalhar, vá brincarEsqueça toda regraNão há medo em um sonho, ''Há um vilarejo dentro deste floco de neve? Partaker of influx and efflux I, extoller of hate and conciliation. If they are not just as close as they are distant they are nothing. Why should I wish to see God better than this day? I am the hounded slave, I wince at the bite of the dogs. His nostrils dilate as my heels embrace him. Torches shine in the dark that hangs on the Chattahooche or Altamahaw. The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of his polish’d and perfect limbs. Toss, sparkles of day and dusk—toss on the black stems that decay in the muck. Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? who will soonest be through with his supper? what are you doing? Where are you off to, lady? and what is love? Walt Whitman, a kosmos, of Manhattan the son. I behold from the beach your crooked inviting fingers. They see so many strange faces they do not know whom to trust. Desejo receber notificações de destaques e novidades. Walt Whitman’s pre-civil war masterpiece, “Song of Myself” is more than just a poem. And beat the gong of revolt, and stop with fugitives and them that plot and conspire. You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you! And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional. Where the bat flies in the Seventh-month eve, where the great gold-bug drops through the dark. By the cot in the hospital reaching lemonade to a feverish patient. First-rate to ride, to fight, to hit the bull’s eye, to sail a skiff, to sing a song or play on the banjo. At apple-peelings wanting kisses for all the red fruit I find. I loafe and invite my Soul; I lean and loafe at my ease, observing a spear of summer grass. Whitman calls himself a universe of meanings. And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! Song Of Myself. The little plentiful manikins skipping around in collars and tail’d coats, I am aware who they are, (they are positively not worms or fleas,). Now the performer launches his nerve, he has pass’d his prelude on the reeds within. The nightingale is still locked in the cageThe deep breath I took still poisons my lungsAn old oak sheltering me from the blueSun bathing on it's dead frozen leaves, A catnap in the ghost town of my heartShe dreams of storytime and the river ghostsOf mermaids, of Whitman's and the rideRaving harlequins, gigantic toys, A song of me, a song in needOf a courageous symphonyA verse of me a verse in needOf a pure-heart singing me to peace, All that great heart lying still and slowly dyingAll that great heart lying still on an angelwing, All that great heart lying stillIn silent sufferingSmiling like a clown until the show has come to an endWhat is left for encoreIs the same old dead boy's songSung in silence, A midnight flight into Covington WoodsA princess and a panther by my sideThese are Territories I live forI'd still give my everything to love you more, Now, all that great heart lying stillIn silent sufferingSmiling like a clown until the show has come to an endWhat is left for encoreIs the same old dead boy's songSung in silence, Sometimes the sky is piano blackPiano black over cleansing waters, Resting pipes, verse of boreRusting keys without a door, Sometimes the within is piano blackPiano black over cleansing waters, I see a slow, simple youngster by a busy streetWith a begging bowl in his shaking handTrying to smile but hurting infinitely, nbody noticesI do, but walk by, An old man gets naked and kisses a model-doll in his atticIt's half-light and he's in tearsWhen he finally cums his eyes are cascading, I see a beaten dog in a pungent alley. He joins with his partners a group of superior circuit. The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow. My messengers continually cruise away or bring their returns to me. In vain the ocean settling in hollows and the great monsters lying low. And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness. Preferring scars and the beard and faces pitted with small-pox over all latherers. Frivolous, sullen, moping, angry, affected, dishearten’d, atheistical. Walt Whitman’s pre-civil war masterpiece, “Song of Myself” is more than just a poem. Matchless with horse, rifle, song, supper, courtship. What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me. Inland and sea-coast we go, and pass all boundary lines. I hear and behold God in every object, yet understand God not in the least. On all sides prurient provokers stiffening my limbs. My course runs below the soundings of plummets. what have you to confide to me? As noted in The Norton Anthology of Poetry, what… The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes. 1. List to the yarn, as my grandmother’s father the sailor told it to me.