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Even thou canst give me neither thought nor thing,

Were it the priceless pearl hid in the land,

Which if I fix thereon a greedy gaze,

Becomes not poisen that doth burn and cling;

Their own bad look my foolish eyes doth daze,

They see the gift, see not the giving hand—

From the living root the apple dead I wring.

GM

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musician, videographer, new media specialist, producer, imaginator

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New Song! hear the drum