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The smallest housewife in the grass,
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Yet take her from the lawn,
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And somebody has lost the face
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That made existence home!
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XXXI.
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Death is a dialogue between
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The spirit and the dust.
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"Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,
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I have another trust."
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Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
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The Spirit turns away,
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Just laying off, for evidence,
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An overcoat of clay.
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XXXII.
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It was too late for man,
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But early yet for God;
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Creation impotent to help,
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But prayer remained our side.
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How excellent the heaven,
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When earth cannot be had;
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How hospitable, then, the face
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Of our old neighbor, God!
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XXXIII.
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ALONG THE POTOMAC.
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When I was small, a woman died.
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To-day her only boy
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Went up from the Potomac,
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His face all victory,
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To look at her; how slowly
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The seasons must have turned
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Till bullets clipt an angle,
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And he passed quickly round!
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If pride shall be in Paradise
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I never can decide;
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Of their imperial conduct,
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No person testified.
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But proud in apparition,
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That woman and her boy
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Pass back and forth before my brain,
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As ever in the sky.
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XXXIV.
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The daisy follows soft the sun,
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And when his golden walk is done,
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Sits shyly at his feet.
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He, waking, finds the flower near.
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"Wherefore, marauder, art thou here?"
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"Because, sir, love is sweet!"
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We are the flower, Thou the sun!
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Forgive us, if as days decline,
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We nearer steal to Thee, --
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Enamoured of the parting west,
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The peace, the flight, the amethyst,
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Night's possibility!
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XXXV.
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EMANCIPATION.
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No rack can torture me,
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My soul's at liberty
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Behind this mortal bone
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There knits a bolder one
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You cannot prick with saw,
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