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Who shall declare
the joy of the running!
Who shall tell
of the pleasures of flight!
Springing and spurning
the tufts of wild heather,
Sweeping, wide-winged,
through the blue dome of light.
Everything mortal
has moments immortal,
Swift and God-gifted,
immeasurably bright.
So with the stretch
of the white road before me,
Shining snowcrystals
rainbowed by the sun,
Fields that are white, stained
with long, cool, blue shadows,
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