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There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage, If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their surfaces, were this moment reduced back to a pallid float, it would not avail the long run, We should surely bring up again where.
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.
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The sky up there-yet here or next door, or across the way?
Your milky stream pale strippings of my life!




Rise after rise bow the phantoms behind me, Afar down I see the huge first Nothing, I know I was even there, I waited unseen and always, and slept through the lethargic mist, And took my time, and took no hurt from the fetid carbon.We closed with him, the yards entangled, the cannon touch'd, My captain lash'd fast with his own hands.Do I astonish more than they?You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you!14 The wild gander leads his flock through the cool night, Ya-honk he says, and sounds it down to me like an invitation, The pert may suppose it meaningless, but I listening close, Find its purpose and place up there toward the wintry sky.Before I was born out of my mother generations guided me, My embryo has never been torpid, nothing could overlay.