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In the Beck

 There is a fish, that quivers in the pool,
itself a shadow, but its shadow, clear.
Catch it again and again, it still is there.
Against the flowing stream, its life keeps pace with death - the impulse and the flash of grace hiding in its stillness, moves to be motionless.
No net will hold it - always it will return Where the ripples settle, and the sand - It lives unmoved, equated with the stream, As flowers are fit for air, man for his dream.

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