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if (touched by love's own secret we, like homing
through welcoming sweet miracles of air
(and joyfully all truths of wing resuming)
selves, into infinite tomorrow steer
--- souls under whom flow (mountain valley forest)
a million wheres which never may become
one (wholly strange; familiar wholly) dearest
more than reality of more than dream ---
how should contented fools of fact envision
the mystery of freedom? yet, among
their loud exactitudes of imprecision
you'll (silently alighting) and i'll sing
while at us very deafly a most stares
colossal hoax of clocks and calendars