Like driftwood spars which meet and passUpon the boundless ocean-plain,So on the sea of life, alas!Man nears man, meets, and leaves again.
At the end of our streets is sunrise; At the end of our streets are spars; At the end of our streets is sunset; At the end of our streets the stars.
In fierce March weather, white waves break tether, and whirled together at either hand. Like weeds uplifted, the tree-trunks rifted In spars are drifted, like foam or sand.algernon charles swinburne
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