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 For moveless limbs no pity I crave,
That never were swift! Still all I prize,
Laughter and thought and friends, I have;
No fool to heave luxurious sighs
For the woods and hills that I never knew.
The more excellent way's yet mine! And you Flower-laden come to the clean white cell, And we talk as ever -- am I not the same? With our hearts we love, immutable, You without pity, I without shame.
We talk as of old; as of old you go Out under the sky, and laughing, I know, Flit through the streets, your heart all me; Till you gain the world beyond the town.
Then -- I fade from your heart, quietly; And your fleet steps quicken.
The strong down Smiles you welcome there; the woods that love you Close lovely and conquering arms above you.
O ever-moving, O lithe and free! Fast in my linen prison I press On impassable bars, or emptily Laugh in my great loneliness.
And still in the white neat bed I strive Most impotently against that gyve; Being less now than a thought, even, To you alone with your hills and heaven.

Poem by Rupert Brooke
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