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 The woods and the marsh and the sea and my soul

Unto thee, whence the glittering stream of all morrows doth roll,

Cry good and past-good and most heavenly morrow, lord Sun.

O Artisan born in the purple,—Workman Heat,—

Parter of passionate atoms that travail to meet

And be mixed in the death-cold oneness,—innermost Guest

At the marriage of elements,—fellow of publicans,—blest

King in the blouse of flame, that loiterest o'er

The idle skies yet laborest fast evermore,—

Thou, in the fine forge-thunder, thou, in the beat

Of the heart of a man, thou Motive,—Laborer Heat:

Yea, Artist, thou, of whose art yon sea 's all news,

With his inshore greens and manifold mid-sea blues,

Pearl-glint, shell-tint, ancientest perfectest hues