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O my soul, every sun shed I upon thee, and every night and every silence and every longing: then grewest thou up for me as a vine. O my soul, exuberant and heavy dost thou now stand forth, a vine with swelling udders and full clusters of brown golden grapes: Filled and weighted by thy happiness, waiting from superabundance, and yet ashamed of thy waiting.
Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity."
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