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The man who made her let me climb the derrick

At nine (not far from—four—another child)

Produced this steady daring keeps us wild . .

I remember the wind wound on me like a lyric.

One resignation on to more, some cleric

Has told us, helms, would make the Devil mild

At last; one boldness so in the spirit filed

Brings boldness on—collective—atmospheric—

Character in the end, contented on a slope

Brakeless, a nervy ledge . . we overgrow

My derrick into midnights and high dawn,

The riot where I’m happy—still I hope

Sometime to dine with you, sometime to go

Sober to bed, a proper citizen.