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This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, _ This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, _ This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. _ Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? _ Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the _ _ _ _ _ side of a rock has. _ Do you take it I would astonish? _ Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering _ _ _ _ _ through the woods? _ Do I astonish more than they? _ This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.
Walt Whitman
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This the touch of my lips to yours, this the murmur of yearning, _ This the far-off depth and height reflecting my own face, _ This the thoughtful merge of myself, and the outlet again. _ Do you guess I have some intricate purpose? _ Well I have, for the Fourth-month showers have, and the mica on the _ _ _ _ _ side of a rock has. _ Do you take it I would astonish? _ Does the daylight astonish? does the early redstart twittering _ _ _ _ _ through the woods? _ Do I astonish more than they? _ This hour I tell things in confidence, I might not tell everybody, but I will tell you.

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