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COLOR, Caste, Denomination—These are Time's affair,Death's division classifyingDoes not know they are.
As in sleep—all here forgotten,Tenets put behind,Death's large democratic fingersRub away the brand.
If Circassian—He is careless—If He put awayChrysalis of Blonde or Umber,Equal butterfly—
They emerge from His obscuring,What Death knows so well,Our minuter intuitionsDeem incredible.
