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O day, arise, that particles may dance,
And all who know the wheel and air may prance.
Souls, drunk with joy, in wild abandon sway,
In your ear, I whisper: where do they dance, pray?
Each speck that floats in air or lies in plain,
Observe it well—enchanted, like us, it remains.
Each particle, whether in joy or sorrow,
Is lost, bewitched by the sun's radiant glow.
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