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Books by Whitman

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LONG, too long, O land,

Traveling roads all even and peaceful, you learn'd from
joys and prosperity only;

But now, ah now, to learn from crises of anguish—ad-
vancing, grappling with direst fate, and recoiling
not;

And now to conceive, and show to the world, what your
children en-masse really are;

(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your
children en-masse really are?)

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