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280 This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee, An unceasing death-bell tolls there.

Those then are really men—the bosses and tufts of
 * the great round globe!

Features of my equals, would you trick me with your
 * creased and cadaverous march?

Well, you cannot trick me.

I see your rounded never-erased flow, I see neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.

Splay and twist as you like—poke with the tangling
 * fores of fishes or rats,

You'll be unmuzzled, you certainly will.

I saw the face of the most smeared and slobbering
 * idiot they had at the asylum,

And I knew for my consolation what they knew not, And I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my
 * brother,

The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen
 * tenement,

And I shall look again in a score or two of ages, And I shall meet the real landlord, perfect and unharmed,
 * every inch as good as myself.

The Lord advances, and yet advances, Always the shadow in front—always the reached
 * hand bringing up the laggards.

Out of this face emerge banners and horses—O
 * superb! I see what is coming,