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Filled with repining, and envy, and strife, What is the present—the actual of life? The actual! it is as the clay to the soul, The working-day portion of life's wondrous whole! How much it needeth the light and the air To breathe their own being, the beautiful, there! Like the soil that asks for the rain from the sky, And the soft west wind that goes wandering by, E'er the wonderful world within will arise And rejoice in the smile of the summer's soft eyes.

The present—the actual—were they our all— Too heavy our burthen, too hopeless our thrall; But heaven, that spreadeth o'er all its blue cope, Hath given us memory,—hath given us hope! And redeemeth the lot which the present hath cast, By the fame of the future, the dream of the past.