Queries to My Seventieth Year

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from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY - by Walt Whitman.

  Approaching, nearing, curious,
  Thou dim, uncertain spectre—bringest thou life or death?
  Strength, weakness, blindness, more paralysis and heavier?
  Or placid skies and sun? Wilt stir the waters yet?
  Or haply cut me short for good? Or leave me here as now,
  Dull, parrot-like and old, with crack’d voice harping, screeching?


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