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I know Egypt and its luxury, Persia and its proud; but I prefer the caress of the mountain's fresh air.
I know about men's trips and about their quarrels; but I prefer the bees flying around flowers.
I know about the song of the wind in the loudmouthed branches; shall nobody tell me that I lie, because that's really what I prefer.
I know about a range frightened That returns to the stable, and expire, And of a tired heart That dies dark and without wrath.

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