Shownotes
I don't need therapy, I am an Indian
Struck with sure colors by a sudden aid
To leave the people from their large repose.
Thus, with the silent greeting, they should live
Each hour. No eloquence, no inward pain,—
No human soul, no earthly mortal shame,—
Man's boundless love,— the immortal love.
He notes the same sweet touch above the throng,
And sweeter now their precious melodies.
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