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- Fair is our lot—O goodly is our heritage!
- Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees.
III. THE SONG OF THE DEAD
- Hear now the Song of the Dead—in the North by the torn berg-edges.
- The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar.
- One from the ends of the earth gifts at an open door.