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    Systrom, known by his handle on the site Kevin, uploaded the first photo [8] to the service on July 17th,while it was still referred to as "Codename. The app officially launched in the iTunes Store [16] on October 6th, after eight weeks of development.

    In a corresponding blog post [11]the company stated that they wanted to make mobile photos look beautiful, enable simple sharing options and create a fast uploading and viewing environment.

    Arrival in Chisinau

    By December 21st, the community had surpassed 1 million members. A Quora [19] page continues to keep track of usership milestones. As of AugustInstagram has a five star rating on the iTunes store fromratings. Android Release After being exclusively available to the iPhone store for a year and a half, an Android version of Instagram was released on April 3rd, On the day of the release, the company revealed there were more thanAndroid users on the waiting list.

    As of Julythe Android version of Instagram [17] has been installed more than 50 million times. It has a four and a half star rating from 1, reviews.

    That day, both Kevin Systrom [35] and Mark Zuckerberg [36] published blog posts announcing the deal, noting that the Instagram service would not be completely integrated with Facebook and users could still elect not to share their photos on the social networking site if they did not want to.

    This app not only lets users easily scroll through their friends' Facebook photos, but utilizes similar filters and cropping tools to Instagram. Unlike Instagram, IGTV allows users to upload videos up to one hour in length, as oppose to Instagram's one-minute maximum. However, while everyone will be allowed to upload hour-long videos, in time, users will be allowed to upload longer videos, as well.

    Features Photos taken with Instagram are automatically cropped into square dimension [29]inspired by Kodak Instamatic [30] and Polaroid cameras.

    Users can add a filter to the photo with the option of adding a tilt shift effect to the picture. On January 27th,hashtags were implemented in the photo comments, which work similar to the ones on Twitter, collecting thematically related photos together. As of Julythe app has sixteen colored filters to choose from [14]each meant to give the photo a different sense of mood.

    In Aprilthe Atlantic [14] provided a breakdown of each filter. Warm, saturated tones with an emphasis on aquas and greens. Faded, blurred colors, with an emphasis on yellow and beige.

    Dreamy, ever-so-slightly blurry, with saturated yellows and greens, inspired by Lomography. Sepia-like, with an emphasis on purples and browns. High exposure, with corner vignetting. Low-key, with an emphasis on grays and greens. True-to-life contrast, with slightly gray and brown overtones. Washed-out color with bluish overtones. Fuzziness, with an emphasis on yellow and golden tones.

    Sharp images with a magenta-meets-purple tint, framed by a distinctive film-strip-esque border. Gloria Gaynor-level '70s flair. Super-saturated, supremely retro photos with a distinctive scratchy border. Black-and-white, with subtle purple tones and a translucent glowing white border. Photo Mapping On August 16th,Instagram released an updated version of the app for iOS and Android that included a photo-mapping feature to display the location of photographs on a map.

    Walt Whitman Song of Myself

    On the following day, the Internet news blog The Daily Dot [55] published an article about the new feature, which reported that some users were complaining that the photo map raised privacy concerns and that the app was using a Foursquare API for the geotagging feature. Video Sharing On June 20th,after several days of rumors in the news [74]Instagram held a press conference to announce the launch of a video sharing feature within the app.

    In the hours prior to the press conference, Twitter -owned video sharing app and direct competitor Vine announced [76] several upcoming features through a series of teaser Vines on the Twitter accounts of its co-founders, Dom Hofmann and Rus Yusupov. These features include private messaging, the ability to save drafts and a new user interface.

    The feature would also allow for picture-in-picture capability, allowing users to browse the app while chatting. Outside of its official presence on social networking sites, there is an Instagram hashtag on Twitter [23] and Tumblr [24] where people seek out followers and share their photos outside of the app.

    Mashable [31] also has a tag for Instagram related stories. Since Instagram does not offer a profile page for its users, several third-party web-based viewers have popped up including Webstagram [27] and Statigram [28]which provide users with statistics on how well their photos perform based on the total count of comments and likes, as well as a ranking breakdown of filters used in the photos.

    Questions In July ofInstagram added a feature to their stories in which users could add a question to their story, inviting others to answer. However, that person is known to the user. This led to confusion and blunders, as question-askers thought they were anonymous. UK site Standard [91] wrote the feature would become the new way to "slide into someone's DMs.

    Meanwhile, many Instagram users reacted to the announcement by expressing their distaste for the new TOS, threatening to quit the service if it is enacted. Instagram [73] user clayoncubitt submitted a screenshot of the TOS titled "Instagram's suicide note" shown belowwhich received over likes within 24 hours. Delete your Instagram accounts. In Augusta form of buzzkilling that came to be known as Instagram Quote Rebuttals emerged on Tumblrwhere people began to edit sentimental filtered images with blocky red text, voiding the emotion the original poster was attempting to portray.

    Rich Kids of Instagram The single topic blog Rich Kids of Instagram [49] began on July 13th, to showcase and critique lavish lifestyles of some teenagers who share photos on the app.

    The anonymous owners of the blog encourage Instagram users to use the hashtag rkoi to collect the photos. Within two weeks, Instagram photos had the hashtag. Ninteen year old Annabel Schwartz, who was shown vacationing in Saint-Tropez, told reporters she was embarrassed to have her photo on the site, saying her and her friends "consider themselves to be a lot more substantial than their father's credit card. The photo had been shared on Instagram by daughter Alexa Dell, who was subsequently forced to shut down her various social media accounts.

    Also on August 16th, the technology blog Gather [60] published a post titled "Rich Kids of Instagram:
    Thick, luxurious ivy forms a bed over the space where once an altar stood; a Star of David, formed from twisted red metal, provides a grip for the weeds and creepers which are slowly, year by year, reclaiming the ore, pulling this temple back down into a sea of featureless foliage.

    For now the stone walls stand tall, an empty shell, but in time these too will succumb. It is a reminder, too, of our own fragility. It shows that even our temples, stout buildings of iron and stone, can, in the space of just a few short decades of disuse, soon be dismantled, dismembered, and re-digested by the flora we so readily take for granted. With a population somewhere just under half a million, Chisinau is not a large capital.

    It is a city that, prior to my first visit, I had felt — in all honesty — quite indifferent about meeting. I simply knew nothing about the place… other than the fact that in travelling from Bucharest to Kiev, I was going to need to pass through it. I had already taken the train through Chisinau on two separate occasions peering out the window at rows of drab concrete buildings — what the Germans might call Plattenbauten before I ever stopped to explore the city. By the time I finally did though, I would find it a thoroughly rewarding experience.

    My third visit to Moldova — my first extended stay in the country — came at the end of August. It was a road trip, a small group of friends on our way to see the Independence Day parades in the neighbouring breakaway state of Transnistria.

    We stopped for the night in the Moldovan capital en route, and this time I was keen to do it justice. The Jews of Bessarabia The city of Chisinau was mentioned in history books as early as the 15th century, and featured a significant Jewish population from the 16th century onwards.

    It was then the capital of Bessarabia — a province of some 45, square kilometres, stretching from the Danube Delta and the Black Sea in the south, as far north as the River Dnieper that flows through Kiev. After its liberation from Ottoman rule, Bessarabia was absorbed by the Russian Empire and would remain under its control for more than a century.

    Abraham Polnovick, a survivor of the pogrom, reported: Dead bodies were everywhere, many of them horribly mutilated, and in most cased with the clothes torn off. There were ears, fingers, noses lying on the pavements. Babies were tossed in the air to be caught on the points of spears and swords. Young girls were horribly mistreated before death came to end their torture.

    I saw these things with my own eyes, no pen or tongue can add anything to the fiendishness of the mobs who swarmed through the streets, crying: Spare not at all! The local Jewish population, meanwhile, was still increasing. The tides of war were turning, though… and when Hitler set his sights on the USSR, Chisinau was soon caught in the crossfire. Thousands were killed in raids by the German Air Force, who used incendiary bombs to set huge swathes of the city alight.

    Many of these Moldavian Jews were killed during the invasion. One survivor, Matatias Carp, later wrote: Other Jews were transported elsewhere to be murdered.

    Walt Whitman Song of Myself

    Some disappeared into the hands of the Gestapo, while many were taken from their homes in military trucks, to the outskirts of the city — where they were shot in the back before being thrown into hastily dug pits. The ghettoisation of the Chisinau Jews began on 24th July, as an effort to bring some kind of order to this chaos of looting and death.

    Here, amongst the bombed-out ruins left in the wake of German Air Force raids, they were fenced in and the Chisinau Ghetto was born. The ghetto in Chisinau was one of ten such sites established in the wake of the invasion, to accommodate those Jews left behind after the initial slaughter. There are believed to have beenJews interned in these camps, out of which the Chisinau Ghetto housed a population of 11, people.

    While the German Einzatzcommand favoured extermination, the Romanians had considered Bessarabia as their protectorate, and had insisted on dealing with its citizens — Jewish or otherwise — in their own way. These good times would be relatively short-lived, however. By the time the Soviet Red Army returned, taking Chisinau in August and installing a communist government, it is believed the Nazis had committed the systematic murder of as many asJews across the areas of Bucovina, Bessarabia and Transnistria.

    Walking through clean, quiet streets of s Soviet architecture, we found the site of the former ghettos easily enough. A wedding party passed us by, led by a white limousine that cruised down the boulevard with a bride and groom sat up top, singing loudly and waving a bottle of champagne from the open sunroof.

    Strange to think that seven decades ago, these same streets were a prison. But the bold, brutalist architecture of Chisinau, its socialist-realist monuments, look forward towards a utopian future as prophesied by the former Marxist regime. They do not look back. Nevertheless, deep in the backstreets of the former ghetto stood one building that might have remembered the times before.

    It was a shell of white stone, a bombed-out skeleton stood back from the road across an empty yard of dust. Trees had burst through the foundations, to sprout inside and around the old walls.

    It had been a Jewish synagogue and yeshiva, I would later learn — a casualty of the air raids. The resilience of the human spirit apparently knows no bounds, however; and even here, where twice in a century Jewish communities have been subjected to the very worst kinds of soulless brutality, there is yet fresh growth.

    Turning a corner onto a narrow backstreet as we cut our way through the blocks, heading for the city centre, we stumbled across the heart of the contemporary Jewish community in Chisinau. I almost walked straight past the Chabad Lubavitch Synagogue… a humble, nondescript building that, save for a small plaque written in Hebrew script, did very little to advertise its presence.

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    The Old Market area of Chisinau had disguised its past well: At the open gates, an elderly woman tried to sell me flowers. I gave her the money without taking a bouquet. Inside the gates, it was near impossible to gauge the size of the cemetery. It spread out in three directions, paths disappearing between stones and shrines and mausoleums that grew increasingly more green, more dilapidated, as my gaze followed them into the distance.

    Cemeteries are perfect examples of what Foucault called the heterotopia; places that exist outside of normal social space, where boundaries are ritualistic and time can take on new dimensions. There are somewhere in the region of 23, interments at the Chisinau Jewish Cemetery, dating from as early as the 17th century.

    Here though, near the entrance, the graves were much more recent. Many featured dates in the s and 70s; the freshest I could find read It was written that only 86 Jews remained in Chisinau after the war… but rather than fading out, the graves here told a different story. There were consistent burials throughout the following decades, seemingly growing in number over the years. Some of the newer graves had been carved in Latin letters, alongside others marked in Hebrew and Cyrillic script.

    As I moved deeper into the wooded areas in the furthest corners of the necropolis, pushing branches and creepers aside to pass down long-disused paths, the landscape itself was changing, undulating in great waves of green. It was a surreal feeling — until I was brought sharply back by the sound of a dog growling. I saw the first one peering at me from beneath a veil of brambles… and then another behind that, and I think, perhaps, a third.

    They were probably harmless. Homeless, hungry strays, threatened by the intrusion in this otherwise private place. As the pack leader started squaring off against me though, baring its teeth in a deep, throaty growl, I lost my nerve. Logic was telling me to stand firm, stare it out — but instead I found myself running.

    It was too high to climb, so I followed it… keeping close to the barrier as I looked for some way to scramble up and over, out of reach. Instead, I found a building — it seemed to come from nowhere, a large brick structure looming at me suddenly from the undergrowth. For a moment it gave the impression of having floated up out of a sea of vegetation, torrents of greenery clinging to its sides like water streaming down the flanks of some beached leviathan.

    Around the corner I found a metal door set into a stone frame, partially obscured behind a mound of rubble. Leaning against the inside of the door I caught my breath; and as I did so, I looked up to find myself inside the ruins of an abandoned temple. It was built several hundred years after the first graves were dug, opening in the late 19th century. Some sources call it a synagogue; others say it served only for the preparation of bodies for burial.

    The wrought iron pulpit inside, black metal clinging to the side of a crumbling pillar, seemed to suggest, at least, that the building had once been used for religious services.

    Long after the dogs had stopped barking, for certain; and longer still, as I breathed in the old air, absorbed every detail of the weathered carvings, the rusted stars on the metalwork. It is a story of horror, and of resilience.

    The Jews of Bessarabia

    This sacred ruin, this beautiful corpse, stands for more than just a portrait of natural decay. The vast majority of dates, facts and figures in this article come from the following three sources: The Bohemian Blog is bigger than it looks. Check out my page on Patreon to find out more about the perks of getting involved.
    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 loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death. Creeds and schools in abeyance, Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten, I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard, Nature without check with original energy.

    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. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, buzz'd whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-color'd sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belch'd words of my voice loos'd to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

    Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? Have you practis'd so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

    There was never any more inception than there is now, Nor any more youth or age than there is now, And will never be any more perfection than there is now, Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now. Urge and urge and urge, Always the procreant urge of the world. Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and increase, always sex, Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of life.

    To elaborate is no avail, learn'd and unlearn'd feel that it is so. Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams, Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical, I and this mystery here we stand. Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my soul. Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen, Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

    Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age, Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself. Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean, Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

    I am satisfied--I see, dance, laugh, sing; As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy tread, Leaving me baskets cover'd with white towels swelling the house with their plenty, Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes, That they turn from gazing after and down the road, And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent, Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is ahead?

    Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am, Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary, Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest, Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next, Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

    Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with linguists and contenders, I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait. Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

    I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn'd over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom-bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stript heart, And reach'd till you felt my beard, and reach'd till you held my feet. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap'd stones, elder, mullein and poke-weed.

    I do not know what it is any more than he. I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven. Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord, A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt, Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

    Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation. Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic, And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones, Growing among black folks as among white, Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

    Walt Whitman Song of Myself

    And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves. 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. This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers, Darker than the colorless beards of old men, Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

    O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues, And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing. I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women, And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps. What do you think has become of the young and old men? And what do you think has become of the women and children? They are alive and well somewhere, The smallest sprout shows there is really no death, And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it, And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.

    All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses, And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier. I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contain'd between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good, The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

    I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself, They do not know how immortal, but I know. Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women, For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers, For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears, For me children and the begetters of children.

    The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.

    The suicide sprawls on the bloody floor of the bedroom, I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol has fallen. I am there, I help, I came stretch'd atop of the load, I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other, I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy, And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

    The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle and scud, My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from the deck. The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me, I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time; You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

    I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west, the bride was a red girl, Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets hanging from their shoulders, 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, She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd to her feet.

    The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside, I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile, Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and weak, And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him, And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and bruis'd feet, And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave him some coarse clean clothes, And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness, And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles; He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass'd north, I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the corner.

    She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window. Which of the young men does she like the best? Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her. Where are you off to, lady? Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

    The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long hair, Little streams pass'd all over their bodies. An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies, It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them, They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, They do not think whom they souse with spray. Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil, Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in the fire.

    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. I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop there, I go with the team also. In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as forward sluing, To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing, Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

    Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and day-long ramble, They rise together, they slowly circle around. I believe in those wing'd purposes, And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me, And consider green and violet and the tufted crown intentional, And do not call the tortoise unworthy because she is not something else, And the in the woods never studied the gamut, yet trills pretty well to me, And the look of the bay mare shames silliness out of me.

    The sharp-hoof'd moose of the north, the cat on the house-sill, the chickadee, the prairie-dog, The litter of the grunting sow as they tug at her teats, The brood of the turkey-hen and she with her half-spread wings, I see in them and myself the same old law.

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    The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections, They scorn the best I can do to relate them. I am enamour'd of growing out-doors, Of men that live among cattle or taste of the ocean or woods, Of the builders and steerers of ships and the wielders of axes and mauls, and the drivers of horses, I can eat and sleep with them week in and week out.

    What is commonest, cheapest, nearest, easiest, is Me, Me going in for my chances, spending for vast returns, Adorning myself to bestow myself on the first that will take me, Not asking the sky to come down to my good will, Scattering it freely forever.

    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; The bride unrumples her white dress, the minute-hand of the clock moves slowly, The opium-eater reclines with rigid head and just-open'd lips, The prostitute draggles her shawl, her bonnet bobs on her tipsy and pimpled neck, The crowd laugh at her blackguard oaths, the men jeer and wink to each other, Miserable!

    I do not laugh at your oaths nor jeer you; The President holding a cabinet council is surrounded by the great Secretaries, On the piazza walk three matrons stately and friendly with twined arms, The crew of the fish-smack pack repeated layers of halibut in the hold, The Missourian crosses the plains toting his wares and his cattle, As the fare-collector goes through the train he gives notice by the jingling of loose change, The floor-men are laying the floor, the tinners are tinning the roof, the masons are calling for mortar, In single file each shouldering his hod pass onward the laborers; Seasons pursuing each other the indescribable crowd is gather'd, it is the fourth of Seventh-month, what salutes of cannon and small arms!

    I resist any thing better than my own diversity, Breathe the air but leave plenty after me, And am not stuck up, and am in my place. The moth and the fish-eggs are in their place, The bright suns I see and the dark suns I cannot see are in their place, The palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place.

    This is the grass that grows wherever the land is and the water is, This the common air that bathes the globe. Have you heard that it was good to gain the day? I also say it is good to fall, battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.

    I beat and pound for the dead, I blow through my embouchures my loudest and gayest for them. Vivas to those who have fail'd!

    And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea! And to those themselves who sank in the sea!

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    And to all generals that lost engagements, and all overcome heroes! And the numberless unknown heroes equal to the greatest heroes known!

    This is the press of a bashful hand, this the float and odor of hair, This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the side of a rock has.

    Walt Whitman Song of Myself

    Do you take it I would astonish? Does the daylight astonish? Do I astonish more than they? This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you. What is a man anyhow? All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, Else it were time lost listening to me. I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth. Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out.

    Why should I pray? Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel'd with doctors and calculated close, I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. I know I am solid and sound, To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means.

    I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night.

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