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 The Poet by Amy Lowell 
						What instinct forces man to journey on,Urged by a longing blind but dominant!
 Nothing he sees can hold him, nothing daunt
 His never failing eagerness.  The sun
 Setting in splendour every night has won
 His vassalage; those towers flamboyant
 Of airy cloudland palaces now haunt
 His daylight wanderings.  Forever done
 With simple joys and quiet happiness
 He guards the vision of the sunset sky;
 Though faint with weariness he must possess
 Some fragment of the sunset's majesty;
 He spurns life's human friendships to profess
 Life's loneliness of dreaming ecstasy.
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