Not Heat Flames Up and Consumes

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by Walt Whitman.

  Not heat flames up and consumes,
  Not sea-waves hurry in and out,
  Not the air delicious and dry, the air of ripe summer, bears lightly
      along white down-balls of myriads of seeds,
  Waited, sailing gracefully, to drop where they may;
  Not these, O none of these more than the flames of me, consuming,
      burning for his love whom I love,
  O none more than I hurrying in and out;
  Does the tide hurry, seeking something, and never give up? O I the same,
  O nor down-balls nor perfumes, nor the high rain-emitting clouds,
      are borne through the open air,
  Any more than my soul is borne through the open air,
  Wafted in all directions O love, for friendship, for you.


 

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