I.
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ift your flowerson bitter stemschickory!Lift them upout of the scorched ground!Bear no foliagebut give yourselfwholly to that! Strain under themyou bitter stemsthat no beast eats--and scorn greyness!Into the heat with them:cool!luxuriant! sky-blue!The earth cracks andis shriveled up;the wind moans piteously;the sky goes outif you should fail.
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