| http://www.w3.org/ns/prov#value | - Nothing is certain -- I devote my higher mind to the ardent -- My eyes see the fields, the fields -- Each man is a world, and as each fountain -- Not only wine but its oblivion I pour -- How great a sadness and bitterness -- Solemnly over the fertile land -- Where there are roses we plant doubt -- As long as I feel the full breeze in my hair -- Wha
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