Touch lightly Nature's sweet Guitar
Unless thou know'st the Tune
Or every Bird will point at thee
Because a Bard too soon —
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We thirst at first — 'tis Nature's Act —
And later — when we die —
A little Water supplicate —
Of fingers going by —
It intimates the finer want —
Whose adequate supply
Is that Great Water in the West —
Termed Immortality —
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