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Poem	From far, from eve and morning And yon twelve-winded sky, The stuff of life to knit me Blew hither: here am I. Now-- for a breath I tarry Nor yet disperse apart-- Take my hand quick and tell me, What have you in your heart. Speak now, and I will answer; How shall I help you, say; Ere to the wind's twelve quarters I take my endless way.
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