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We claim no glory. If the tempest rollsAbout us we have fear, and thenHaving so small a stake grow bold again.We know not definitely even thisBut ’cause some vague half knowing half doth missOur consciousness and leaves us feelingThat somehow all is well, that sober, reelingFrom the last carouse, or in what measureOf so called right or so damned wrong our leisureRuns out uncounted sand beneath the sun,That, spite your carping, still the thing is doneWith some deep sanction, that, we know not how,Sans thought gives us this feeling; you allowThat this not need we know our every thoughtOr see the work shop where each mask is wroughtWherefrom we view the world of box and pit,Careless of wear, just so the mask shall fitAnd serve our jape’s turn for a night or two.

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