Oh, if my soul were lifted like a tree
Up from the little stones that lie on me!
If I could stand
Still on the hill and never move my hand;
No, never beckon, no, nor wave my dress,
But only wait in heavy breathlessness—
Just stand
Still on the hill and never move my hand-
He might come up for balm; he might go down,
Careless and comforted, to town.
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