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Gulls are the only birds,
And thin their cries,
Bleak winter in their frosty eyes.
And thin their cries,
Bleak winter in their frosty eyes.
Somewhere, are fields and boughs,
A hill, a brook;
I would not lift my head to look
A hill, a brook;
I would not lift my head to look
From this wind-shapen dune,
This stern still place,
This sea that stares me in the face,
This stern still place,
This sea that stares me in the face,
This unimpeded sun!—
And for my hand,
The fine unfecund yellow sand!
And for my hand,
The fine unfecund yellow sand!
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