souls under whom flow (mountain valley forest) a million wheres which never may become one (wholly strange;familiar wholly) dearest more than reality of more than dream— how should contented fools of fact envision the mystery of freedom?yet,among their loud exactitudes of imprecision, you 'll(silently alighting)and 1’ll sing while at us very deafly a most stares colossal hoax of clocks and calendars ee cummings
