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44 Was on me, and I would have gone to sleep,— But I had not the courage. If I slept, I feared that I should never wake again; And if I did not sleep I should go mad, And with my own dull tools, which I had used With wretched skill so long, hack out my life. And while I lay there, tortured out of death, Great waves of cold, as if the dead were breathing, Came over me and through me; and I felt Quick fearful tears of anguish on my face And in my throat. But soon, and in the distance, Concealed, importunate, there was a sound Of coming steps,—and I was not afraid; No, I was not afraid then, I was glad; For I could feel, with every thought, the Man, The Mystery, the Child, a footfall nearer. Then, when he stood before me, there was no Surprise, there was no questioning: I knew him, As I had known him always; and he smiled. 'Why are you here?' he asked; and reaching down, He took up my dull blades and rubbed his thumb Across the edges of them and then smiled Once more.—’I was a carpenter,’ I said, ’But there was nothing in the world to do.' ’Nothing?' said he.—'No, nothing,' I replied.— ’But are you sure,' he asked, 'that you have skill?