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 | Leaves of grass (1872) |  |
JOY, SHIPMATE, JOY!
Joy! shipmate—joy!(Pleas'd to my Soul at death I cry;)
Our life is closed—our life begins;
The long, long anchorage we leave,
The ship is clear at last—she leaps!
She swiftly courses from the shore;
Joy! shipmate—joy!
| Leaves of grass (1872) | |