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Lest you leave your
longings in the sunshine Nor could your own inventions offer more, Even those transfigured from your race, Which, privatized, seem downsized, somehow thinned. Yet here is all the wealth the past has made, Each relic well preserved in ancient brine, A treasure-trove of comedy and grace Resting where your faith would else be blind. Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use. Video and Audio Music: Outcast.
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