Listening
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T is you that are the music, not your song.The song is but a door which, opening wide,Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strongSings but of you. Throughout your whole life longYour songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divideThis perfect beauty; waves within a tide,Or single notes amid a glorious throng.The song of earth has many different chords;Ocean has many moods and many tonesYet always ocean. In the damp Spring woodsThe painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine conesAutumn alone can ripen. So is thisOne music with a thousand cadences.
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