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Poem	A Solemn thing within the Soul To feel itself get ripe -- And golden hang -- while farther up -- The Maker's Ladders stop -- And in the Orchard far below -- You hear a Being -- drop -- A Wonderful -- to feel the Sun Still toiling at the Cheek You thought was finished -- Cool of eye, and critical of Work -- He shifts the stem -- a little -- To give your Core -- a look -- But solemnest -- to know Your chance in Harvest moves A little nearer -- Every Sun The Single -- to some lives.
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