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STRAY BIRDS 116 earth hums to me to-day in the sun, like a woman at her spinning, some ballad of the ancient time in a forgotten tongue.

117 grass-blade is worthy of the great world where it grows.

118 is a wife who must talk.

Sleep is a husband who silently suffers.

119 night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, "I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth." [36]