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Poem	They leave us with the Infinite. But He -- is not a man -- His fingers are the size of fists -- His fists, the size of men -- And whom he foundeth, with his Arm As Himmaleh, shall stand -- Gibraltar's Everlasting Shoe Poised lightly on his Hand, So trust him, Comrade -- You for you, and I, for you and me Eternity is ample, And quick enough, if true.
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