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per.00118.011 [For the NEW YORK HERALD.]

Continuities.1

[From a talk I had lately with a German spiritualist.] Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost, No birth, identity, form—no object of the world, Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing; Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere 
  confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space—ample the field and 
  nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold—the embers left 
  from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim shall duly flame 
  again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings 
  and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible land 
  returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and 
  corn.
WALT WHITMAN.

Notes

1. Reprinted in the "Sands at Seventy" annex to Leaves of Grass (1888). [back]

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