A wail in the wind is all I hear; A voice of woe for a lover's loss.
My highway is unfeatured air, My consorts are the sleepless stars, And men my giant arms upbear — My arms unstained and free from scars.
Most joyful let the Poet be; It is through him that all men see.
I sing New England, as she lights her fire In every Prairie's midst; and where the bright Enchanting stars shine pure through Southern night, She still is there, the guardian on the tower, To open for the world a purer hour.
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