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140 The door that admits good news and bad news, The door whence the son left home, confident and
 * puffed lip,

The door he entered again from a long and scandalous
 * absence, diseased, broken down, without
 * innocence, without means.

Their shapes arise, above all the rest—the shapes of
 * full-sized men,

Men taciturn yet loving, used to the open air, and the
 * manners of the open air,

Saying their ardor in native forms, saying the old
 * response,

Take what I have then, (saying fain,) take the pay
 * you approached for,

Take the white tears of my blood, if that is what you
 * are after.

Her shape arises, She, less guarded than ever, yet more guarded than
 * ever,

The gross and soiled she moves among do not make
 * her gross and soiled,

She knows the thoughts as she passes—nothing is
 * concealed from her,

She is none the less considerate or friendly therefore, She is the best-beloved—it is without exception—
 * she has no reason to fear, and she does not fear,

Oaths, quarrels, hiccupped songs, proposals, smutty
 * expressions, are idle to her as she passes,

She is silent—she is possessed of herself—they do
 * not offend her,