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Not Heaving from my Ribb'd Breast only.

NOT heaving from my ribb'd breast only;
Not in sighs at night, in rage, dissatisfied with myself;
Not in those long-drawn, ill-supprest sighs;
Not in many an oath and promise broken;
Not in my wilful and savage soul's volition;
Not in the subtle nourishment of the air;
Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and
Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which
will one day cease;
Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only;
Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me when
alone, far in the wilds;
Not in husky pantings through clench'd teeth;
Not in sounded and resounded words—chattering
words, echoes, dead words;
Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep,
Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of
every day;
Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you
and dismiss you continually—Not there;
Not in any or all of them, O adhesiveness! O pulse
of my life!
Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more
than in these songs.


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