<h3 id="Possession">Possession</h3>
<p>A YOUTH sat down on a wayside stone,<br/>
A pack on his back and a staff at his knee.<br/>
He whistled a tune which he called his own,<br/>
“It’s a fine new tune, that tune!” said he.</p>
<p>In his pack he carried a crust of bread,<br/>
And he drank from his hands at a brook hard by;<br/>
“Spring water is wonderful cool,” he said,<br/>
“And wonderful soft is the summer sky!”</p>
<p>He looked to the hill which his steps had passed,<br/>
He looked to the slope where a brooklet purled,<br/>
He looked to the distance blue and vast<br/>
And “Ah,” cried he, “what a fine, wide world!”</p>
<p>The youth passed on down the winding track<br/>
That led to the beckoning distance dim,<br/>
And though he carried but staff and pack,<br/>
The world and its giving belonged to him.</p>
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