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I know not how it is with you—
I love the first and last,
The whole field of the present view,
The whole flow of the past.
One tittle of the things that are,
Nor you should change nor I—
One pebble in our path—one star
In all our heaven of sky.
Our lives, and every day and hour,
One symphony appear:
One road, one garden—every flower
And every bramble dear.
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