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Magic

We passed old farmer Boothby in the field.
Rugged and straight he stood; his body steeled
With stubbornness and age. We met his eyes
That never flinched or turned to compromise,
And “Luck,” he cried, “good luck!”—and waved an arm,
Knotted and sailor-like, such as no farm
In all of Maine could boast of ; and away
He turned again to pitch his new-cut hay . . .
We walked on leisurely until a bend
Showed him once more, now working toward the end

Of one great path; wearing his eighty years
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