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Rh He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle,
 * and then falls flat and still in the bloody
 * foam.

O the old manhood of me, my joy! My children and grand-children—my white hair and
 * beard.

My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long
 * stretch of my life.

O the ripened joy of womanhood! O perfect happiness at last! I am more than eighty years of age—my hair, too, is
 * pure white—I am the most venerable mother;

How clear is my mind! how all people draw nigh to
 * me!

What attractions are these, beyond any before? what
 * bloom, more than the bloom of youth?

What beauty is this that descends upon me, and rises
 * out of me?

O the joy of my Soul leaning poised on itself—receiving
 * identity through materials, and loving them
 * —observing characters, and absorbing them;

O my Soul, vibrated back to me, from them—from
 * facts, sight, hearing, touch, my phrenology,
 * reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and

the like; O the real life of my senses and flesh, transcending
 * my senses and flesh;

O my body, done with materials—my sight, done
 * with my material eyes;

O what is proved to me this day, beyond cavil, that it
 * is not my material eyes which finally see,

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