What if it should turn out eternity Was but the steeple on our house of life That made our house of life a house of worship?

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The land was ours before we were the lands. She was our land more than a hundred yearsBefore we were her people. She was oursIn Massachusetts, in Virginia,But we were Englands, still colonials,Possessing what we still were unpossessed by,Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weakUntil we found out that it was ourselvesWe were withholding from our land of living,And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outrightTo the land vaguely realizing westward,But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced,Such as she was, such as she would become.

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A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.

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We dance in a circle and suppose, while the secret sits in the middle and knows.

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And I may return If dissatisfied With what I learn From having died.

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