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 Of him or of his worst manipulations, But only to be out of the same air That made him stay alive in the same world With all the gentlemen that were in irons For uncommendable extravagances That I should reckon slight compared with his Offence of being. Distance would have made him A moving fly-speck on the map of life,— But he would not be distant, though his flesh And bone might have been climbing Fujiyama Or Chimborazo—with me there in London, Or sitting here. My doom it was to see him, Be where I might. That was ten years ago; And having waited season after season His always imminent evil recrudescence, And all for nothing, I was waiting still, When the Titanic touched a piece of ice