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Vignettes of kinda-commerce.
Year nine, entry one.
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Year nine, entry two.
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Year nine, entry three.
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Year nine, entry four.
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Year nine, entry five.
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Year nine, entry six.
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Year nine, entry seven.
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Year nine, entry eight.
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Move him into the sun—
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields half-sown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds,—
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved—still warm—too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
—O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
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