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Perpetual procession

Around the circle, walk those on whom the thunder falls, those who have eagles in their breasts, and some who wear on their curved backs a pair of folded wings. Each toiler sows his dream; stretches his spirit, heart and mind and will around the highest hill, and sings the lucent green of miracles he has not seen. How fervently while they walk the circle, the traveling generations sing the certainty of Springs they cannot see.

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