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Rh An' last it come to me—not pride,

Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole

(If such a term may be applied),

The makin's of a bloomin' soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an' jeer,

Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,

Mountains that never let you near,

An' stars to all eternity;

An' the quick-breathin' dark that fills

The 'ollows of the wilderness,

When the wind worries through the 'ills—

These may 'ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took,

An' ten times left an' burned at last;

An' starvin' dogs that come to look

For owners when a column passed;

An' quiet, 'omesick talks between

Men, met by night, you never knew

Until—'is face—by shellfire seen—

Once—an' struck off. They taught me too.