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 Since you would claim the sources of my thought
Recall the meshes whence it sprang unlimed,
The reedy traps which other hands have times
To close upon it.
Conjure up the hot Blaze that it cleared so cleanly, or the snow Devised to strike it down.
It will be free.
Whatever nets draw in to prison me At length your eyes must turn to watch it go.
My mouth, perhaps, may learn one thing too well, My body hear no echo save its own, Yet will the desperate mind, maddened and proud, Seek out the storm, escape the bitter spell That we obey, strain to the wind, be thrown Straight to its freedom in the thunderous cloud

by Louise Bogan
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