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Gulls are the only birds,
And thin their cries,
Bleak winter in their frosty eyes.

Somewhere, are fields and boughs,
A hill, a brook;
I would not lift my head to look

From this wind-shapen dune,
This stern still place,
This sea that stares me in the face,

This unimpeded sun!—
And for my hand,
The fine unfecund yellow sand!

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