And to those themselves who sank in the sea! The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me. Tenderly will I use you curling grass, It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men, It may be if I had known them I would have loved them, It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers' laps, And here you are the mothers' laps. I am an old artillerist, I tell of my fort's bombardment, I am there again. To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. One of the pumps has been shot away, it is generally thought we are sinking. I am not the poet of goodness only, I do not decline to be the poet of wickedness also. The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also. From the cinder-strew'd threshold I follow their movements, The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms, Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure, They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.
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Sviluppato Antonio Baritono