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How dull it is to pause, to make
an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little…
….
Push off, and sitting well in
order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”
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