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352 Not in the subtle nourishment of the air, Not in this beating and pounding at my temples and
 * wrists,

Not in the curious systole and diastole within, which
 * will one day cease,

Not in many a hungry wish, told to the skies only, Not in cries, laughter, defiances, thrown from me
 * when alone, far in the wilds,

Not in husky pantings through clenched teeth, Not in sounded and resounded words—chattering
 * words, echoes, dead words,

Not in the murmurs of my dreams while I sleep, Nor the other murmurs of these incredible dreams of
 * every day,

Nor in the limbs and senses of my body, that take you
 * and dismiss you continually—Not there,

Not in any or all of them, O adhesiveness! O pulse
 * of my life!

Need I that you exist and show yourself, any more
 * than in these songs.



the terrible question of appearances, Of the doubts, the uncertainties after all, That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations
 * after all,

That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful
 * fable only,

May-be the things I perceive—the animals, plants,
 * men, hills, shining and flowing waters,