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By Henry David Thoreau

O Nature I do not aspire
To be the highest in thy quire,
To be a meteor in the sky
Or comet that may range on high,
Only a zephyr that may blow
Among the reeds by river low,
Give me thy most privy place
Where to run my airy race.
In some withdrawn unpublic mead
Let me sigh upon a reed
Or in the woods with leafy din
Whisper the still evening in.
For I had rather be thy child and pupil in the forest wild
Then be the king of men elsewhere
And most sovereign slave of care
To have one moment of thy dawn
Then share the city’s year forlorn.
Some still work give me to do
Only it be near to you.

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