Behind this fine wooden
I see the trees, the sun, the world,
But I cannot tell what lies beyond,
I cannot see what lies ahead.
So let's jump up and over,
get the lovely bollard behind,
and see all, bright as bright can be.
This smooth analytic machine,
clothed with digits and wires,
alive with logic and cycles,
It sees the world crystal clear,
so go fast, faster, we want more.
It cannot create Byron's beauty,
But it is beauty all its own.
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