Bestirs her puzzled wings
Once more her mistress, on the deep
Her troubled question flings—
Thrice to the floating casement
The Patriarch’s bird returned,
Courage! My brave Columba!
There may yet be Land!

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the beetle’s saliva is on the flower,
the cows milk itself is mixed with the saliva of the calf!
why should there be so much fuss over it?
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Milk does not return to the udder, nor butter to the butter-milk;
Nor the life within the sea-shell, if it breaks, to its body;
The blown flower, the fallen fruit, do not return to the tree;
The dead are not born, never, never, never, never!

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