Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman

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Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare,
like eagles' talons,)

But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring,
some summer—bursting forth,

To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit,

Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the
fresh, free, open air,

And love and faith, like scented roses blooming.

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