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Morocco, and the Muse, and mimicry
Of what God never made and never meant
For Man--Himself--diaphanously blent
With living shadows, play the mastery:
Pollio capers with Terpsichore,
While ass-eared Midas, swinishly content,
Wallows and roots amid the mire anent,
Nor peers beyond the spangled scenery.

We know not, dying, what we may be, dead;
We know not, living, what we are, alive:--
While painted Sorrow's mercenary laugh
Is linked with living lies, and ever read
As truth--throughout this humming human hive
Where is the man to write man's epitaph?

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