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To races nurtured in the dark; --
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How would your own begin?
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Can blaze be done in cochineal,
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Or noon in mazarin?
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VI.
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HOPE.
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Hope is the thing with feathers
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That perches in the soul,
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And sings the tune without the words,
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And never stops at all,
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And sweetest in the gale is heard;
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And sore must be the storm
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That could abash the little bird
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That kept so many warm.
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I 've heard it in the chillest land,
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And on the strangest sea;
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Yet, never, in extremity,
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It asked a crumb of me.
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VII.
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THE WHITE HEAT.
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Dare you see a soul at the white heat?
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Then crouch within the door.
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Red is the fire's common tint;
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But when the vivid ore
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Has sated flame's conditions,
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Its quivering substance plays
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Without a color but the light
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Of unanointed blaze.
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Least village boasts its blacksmith,
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Whose anvil's even din
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Stands symbol for the finer forge
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That soundless tugs within,
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Refining these impatient ores
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With hammer and with blaze,
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Until the designated light
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Repudiate the forge.
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VIII.
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TRIUMPHANT.
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Who never lost, are unprepared
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A coronet to find;
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Who never thirsted, flagons
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And cooling tamarind.
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Who never climbed the weary league --
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Can such a foot explore
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The purple territories
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On Pizarro's shore?
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How many legions overcome?
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The emperor will say.
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How many colors taken
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On Revolution Day?
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How many bullets bearest?
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The royal scar hast thou?
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Angels, write "Promoted"
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On this soldier's brow!
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IX.
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THE TEST.
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I can wade grief,
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Whole pools of it, --
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I 'm used to that.
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But the least push of joy
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