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To the Sun-Set Breeze.


AH, whispering, something again, unseen, Where late this heated day thou enterest at my window, door, Thou, laving, tempering all, cool-freshing, gently vitalizing Me, old, alone, sick, weak-down, melted-worn with sweat; Thou, nestling, folding close and firm yet soft, companion bet- 
 ter than talk, book, art,
(Thou hast, O Nature! elements! utterance to my heart beyond  
 the rest—and this is of them,)
So sweet thy primitive taste to breathe within—thy soothing  
 fingers on my face and hands,
Thou, messenger-magical strange bringer to body and spirit of  
(Distances balk'd—occult medicines penetrating me from head  
 to foot,)
I feel the sky, the prairies vast—I feel the mighty northern  
I feel the ocean and the forest—somehow I feel the globe itself  
 swift-swimming in space;
Thou blown from lips so loved, now gone—haply from endless  
 store, God-sent,
(For thou art spiritual, Godly, most of all known to my  
Minister to speak to me, here and now, what word has never  
 told, and cannot tell,
Art thou not universal concrete's distillation? Law's, all As- 
 tronomy's last refinement?
Hast thou no soul? Can I not know, identify thee?
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