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198 I too am but a trail of drift and debris, I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped
 * island.

I throw myself upon your breast, my father, I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me, I hold you so firm, till you answer me something.

Kiss me, my father, Touch me with your lips, as I touch those I love, Breathe to me, while I hold you close, the secret of
 * the wondrous murmuring I envy,

For I fear I shall become crazed, if I cannot emulate
 * it, and utter myself as well as it.

Sea-raff! Crook-tongued waves! O, I will yet sing, some day, what you have said
 * to me.

Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,) Cease not your moaning, you fierce old mother, Endlessly cry for your castaways—but fear not,
 * deny not me,

Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet, as
 * I touch you, or gather from you.

I mean tenderly by you, I gather for myself, and for this phantom, looking
 * down where we lead, and following me and
 * mine.

Me and mine! We, loose winrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,