Mood
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THINK an impulse stronger than mymindMay some day grasp a knife, unloose avial,Or with a little leaden ball unbindThe cords that tie me to the rank and file.My hands grow quarrelsome with bitterness,And darkly bent upon the final fray;Night with its stars upon a grave seems lessIndecent than the too complacent day. God knows I would be kind, let live, speakfair, Requite an honest debt with more than just,
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