Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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To those who've fail'd, in aspiration vast,

To unnam'd soldiers fallen in front on the lead,

To calm, devoted engineers—to over-ardent travelers—to pilots
on their ships,

To many a lofty song and picture without recognition—I'd rear
a laurel-cover'd monument,

High, high above the rest—To all cut off before their time,

Possess'd by some strange spirit of fire,

Quench'd by an early death.

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