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Devoid of passion’s roar I can exist no more: What else can be this life But passion strong and strife?

My essence endlessly Impels my minstrelsy: Some may in throng be still, Who feels for others’ ill.

Love’s flame can still set fire To lodge and goods entire: If thirst be not aflame, Wherefore the saki blame?

Your judgment of the West On glamour must not rest: Its essence seems so bright By means of electric light.

The thoughts of world conquest Can never shape in breast, If blessed not be your gaze With world-wide wont and ways.

I, even in winter drear,Fell not in hunter’s snare: My nest’s branches bare Drew the hunter’s stare.

Their plans shall end in smoke, Miscarry the destined stroke: This fact with truth is fraught, No fiction of my thought.