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[VIII. O band of Friends, ye breathe within this space]
O band of Friends, ye breathe within this space,And the rough finish of a humble man,
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I cannot lose a line ye bend to trace;
Your figures bear into the azure deeps,
A little frail contentment of my own,
And in your eyes I read, how sunshine lends
A golden color to the dusty weed,
That droops its tints where the soiled Pilgrims tread.
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