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Rh I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue cut
 * with a burnt stick at night.

I know I am august, I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be
 * understood,

I see that the elementary laws never apologize, I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant
 * my house by, after all.

I exist as I am—that is enough, If no other in the world be aware, I sit content, And if each and all be aware, I sit content.

One world is aware, and by far the largest to me, and
 * that is myself,

And whether I come to my own to-day, or in ten
 * thousand or ten million years,

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness
 * I can wait.

My foothold is tenoned and mortised in granite, I laugh at what you call dissolution, And I know the amplitude of time.

I am the poet of the body, And I am the poet of the Soul.

The pleasures of heaven are with me, and the pains
 * of hell are with me,

The first I graft and increase upon myself—the latter
 * I translate into a new tongue.

Rh