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by Sara Teasdale
So long as my spirit still
 Is glad of breath
And lifts its plumes of pride
 In the dark face of death;
While I am curious still
 Of love and fame,
Keeping my heart too high
 For the years to tame,
How can I quarrel with fate
 Since I can see
I am a debtor to life,
 Not life to me?

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