Abstract
Even now,fifty years on, I knowyour eyes had seen the gloryof the best laid plans—such fearful symmetries—spread out across your pages.To whom shall I give thanks? And even now,fifty years on, I readand hearken to your voice.Your words—wanton as water—turn every way, and sing,pouring over mesuch light. Eternally?Eternal as I read.To whom shall I give thanks?
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