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In this am I different word Man,
To record peace and ideal virtue of children
Nests torn from me, furred bundles of birds;
But had there been no long garden
For us (low as grass swords) to touch half-way,
No tree on that other man�s land,
Who would have pointed for our eyes a throat to be fed?
How should we, hair entousled like blind roots,
Have mouthed the innocent day,
Eyed before speech was with us,
Remembered all summer the castle prepared of leaves
And locked the beam of our eyes?
How, then swerving it into the cross-bar of the great door,
From our inside have closed it, lain quiet,
Finding ourselves now nowhere,
Watching ourselves there still?
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