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"A life of nothings, nothing-worth, From that first nothing ere his birth To that last nothing under earth!"

"These words," I said, "are like the rest No certain clearness, but at best A vague suspicion of the breast:

"But if I grant, thou mightst defend The thesis which thy words intend That to begin implies to end;

"Yet how should I for certain hold
Because my memory is so cold,
That I first was in human mould?

"I cannot make this matter plain,
But I would shoot, howe'er in vain,
A random arrow from the brain.
"It may be that no life is found,
Which only to one engine bound
Falls off, but cycles always round.

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