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by Robert Frost
Excerpt from Robert FrostUnder the long fell's stony eavesThe ploughman, going up and down,Ridge after ridge man's tide-mark leaves,And turns the hard grey soil to brown.Striding, he measures out the earthIn lines of life, to rain and sun;And every year that comes to birthSees him still striding on and on.The seasons change, and then return;Yet still, in blind, unsparing ways,However I may shrink or yearn.The ploughman measures out my days.
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