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104 Will you speak before I am gone? Will you prove
 * already too late?

The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me—he
 * complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me, It flings my likeness, after the rest, and true as any,
 * on the shadowed wilds,

It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air—I shake my white locks at the
 * run-away sun,

I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags. I bequeathe myself to the dirt, to grow from
 * the grass I love,

If you want me again, look for me under your boot-
 * soles.

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean, But I shall be good health to you nevertheless, And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged, Missing me one place, search another, I stop somewhere waiting for you.