Like a mettled young war-horse that tosses his mane, / And frettingly champs at the bit and the rein
We stood on the bank of the dam surveying the squooshy wallow of mud. Jonah scooped up a fistful.
[…] True indeed it is That They whom Death has hidden from our sight Are worthiest of the Mind’s regard; with these The future cannot contradict the past:
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