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92 Day and night are for you, me, all, And what is yet untried and afterward is for you,
 * me, all, precisely the same.

I do not know what is untried and afterward, But I know it is sure, alive, sufficient.

Each who passes is considered—Each who stops is
 * considered—Not a single one can it fail.

It cannot fail the young man who died and was
 * buried,

Nor the young woman who died and was put by his
 * side,

Nor the little child that peeped in at the door,
 * and then drew back, and was never seen again,

Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and
 * feels it with bitterness worse than gall,

Nor him in the poor-house, tubercled by rum and
 * the bad disorder,

Nor the numberless slaughtered and wrecked—nor
 * the brutish koboo called the ordure of humanity,

Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for
 * food to slip in,

Nor anything in the earth, or down in the oldest
 * graves of the earth,

Nor anything in the myriads of spheres—nor one of
 * the myriads of myriads that inhabit them,

Nor the present—nor the least wisp that is known.

It is time to explain myself—Let us stand up.

What is known I strip away, I launch all men and women forward with me into