Watergate? What’s that?

When warrantee deeds loafe in chairs opposite and are my friendly
After his days work done, cleanly, sweet-aird, the gaslight burning
The hoist-up of beams, the push of them in their places, laying them
Endow me with their throbbings, Natures also
Regardless of estimation
Give me to hold all sounds, I madly struggling cry,
And there and then and bathed by the rising sun, my son in his
To sound of different, prouder songs, with stronger themes

Weep not, child
Hour prophetic, hour resuming the past
And the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars
To fill the gross the torpid bulk with vital religious fire
Song of Prudence
Hearing and sight are from you
And sing and laugh and deny nothing
The restless sink in their beds, they fitfully sleep

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