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Free as the whim.Of a spook on a spree,—Free to be oddities,Not mere commodities,Stupid and salable,Wholly available,Ranged upon shelves;Each with his puny formIn the same uniform,Cramped and disabled;We are not labelled,We are ourselves.
Here is the real,Here the ideal;Laughable hardshipMet and forgot,Glory of bardship—World’s bloom and world’s blot;The shock and the jostle,The mock and the push,But hearts like the throstleA-joy in the bush;Wits that would merrilyLaugh away wrong,Throats that would verilyMelt Hell in Song.
What though the dimes beElusive as rhymes be,And Bessie, with fingerUplifted, is warningThat breakfast next morning(A subject she’s scorning)Is mighty uncertain!
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