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Kalacaz

When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,

Tümüyle

What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth,

And I said I do, I do.

When the wind blows the water white and black.

And yet must be—the land where every man is free.

Over the chained bay waters Liberty—

Your culvers take, or matchless make

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

And obscure as that heaven of the Jews,