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If you knew the visions
And the sudden intuitions
That are my lot,
What radiations grow out of a dot
As small as the markings on a beetle;
You no longer would hold back
When I say that Troy
Is as near to me as that broken toy.
You would not even ponder
When I say that Charlemagne
Passed me in the street;
And I have seen Shakespere and Shelley meet.
It is not strange to me
That poets and beggars long dead,
Pass each other, and like you, go to bed.
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