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In such years is this poor man here, not I alone.  Like some cape that fronts the north which is lashed on every side by the waves of winter, so he also is fiercely lashed evermore by the dread disasters that break on him like the surf, some from the region of the setting sun,  some from that of its rising, some in the realm of its noon-time rays, some from the gloom-wrapped hills of the North.
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