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AFTER BROWNING.

A RIDDLE.

To what a glory art thou come at last!

Thy grand apotheosis doth display to all

The anthropoidal creatures on this terrestrial ball

The object lesson of androidal possibilities.

Like thee poor wingless bipeds with terraneous filth are drenched

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By their cosmical relations the soul spark almost quenched,

Like thee when purged by wintry storms and cloud-compelling gales,

As battered bark with broken masts and wind-dismantled sails,

Their spirits like as angel shapes may ever hope to rise,

And fill the lucid interspace betwixt the earth and skies.

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