O child, had I thy lease of time! such unimagined things Are waiting for that soul of thine to spread its untried wings! Shalt thou not speak the stars, and go on journeys through the sky? And read the soul of man as clear as now we read the eye? Who knows if science may not find some art to make thee new,— To mend the garments of thy flesh when thou hast worn them through? ’T is fearful, aye, and beautiful, thy future that may be. How strange!—perhaps death’s conqueror sits smiling on my knee!
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