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Another Day. The ground in all directions strew'd with debris from a storm. Timber creek, as I slowly pace its banks, has ebb'd low, and shows reaction from the turbulent swell of the late equinoctial. Oct. 1, 2 and 3. Down every day in the solitude of the creek. Oct. 4. Cloudy and coolish; signs of incipient winter.
Nature instantly ebb'd again, the film returned to its place, the pulse fluttered stopp'd went on throbb'd stopp'd again moved stopp'd shall I go on? No. I am so impatient to return to my own story, that what remains of young Le Fever's, that is, from this turn of his fortune, to the time my uncle Toby recommended him for my preceptor, shall be told in a very few words in the next chapter.
Underneath all his unloosedness, or free launching forth of himself, is the sanity and repose of nature. The first things I remember to have read were "There was a child went forth," "This Compost," "As I ebb'd with the Ocean of Life," "Old Ireland," and maybe a few others. I was attracted by the new poet's work from the first.
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