  O youth’s young cloudlet, O freshness free, With heart so light on the winds to fly Or glisten in spray up-scatter’d,—I Am sad as the full surgings of the sea; I gave thee birth, thou shalt return to me. Thy heart is light as the empty wind Of barren purposeless change,—but I Am the thought-burden’d slow-searching mind: I am the agony to form & find;— The fluxing travail of eternity.
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