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 Not with vain tears, when we’re beyond the sun, 
We’ll beat on the substantial doors, nor tread 
Those dusty high-roads of the aimless dead 
Plaintive for Earth; but rather turn and run 
Down some close-covered by-way of the air,
Some low sweet alley between wind and wind, 
Stoop under faint gleams, thread the shadows, find 
Some whispering ghost-forgotten nook, and there 

Spend in pure converse our eternal day; 
Think each in each, immediately wise;
Learn all we lacked before; hear, know, and say 
What this tumultuous body now denies; 
And feel, who have laid our groping hands away; 
And see, no longer blinded by our eyes.

Poem by Rupert Brooke
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