...
So we, learning to suffer and not condemn
Can only wish you this great pure wind
Condemned by Greece, and turning like a helm
Inland where it smokes the fires of men,
Spins weathercocks on farms or catches
The lovers at their quarrels in the sheets;
Or as a walker in the darkness might,
Knocks and disturbs the artist at his papers
Up there alone, upon the alps of night.
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