sit, unglued, making yourself caress
th'fresh cut grass.
Now you must trace the birds' wild songs
on tape, to drown th'traffics of the Dawn
methodical--You must, so forcibly,
fulfill th'Force of Nature finely through
wiry modern nerves--Too quickly now
do you resign the Laurel
to (th'blind dump) of Once's hallowed Memory
O Mensch! Something is wrong:
You are Yourself too much
and O so little of the World!
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