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Poem	Within my house of patterned horn I sleep in such a bed As men may keep before they're born And after when they're dead. Sticks and stones may break their bones, And words may make them bleed; There is not one of them who owns An armour to his need. Tougher than hide or lozenged bark, Snow-storm and thunder proof, And quick with sun, and thick with dark, Is this my darling roof. Men's troubled dreams of death and birth Puls mother-o'-pearl to black; I bear the rainbow bubble Earth Square on my scornful back.
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