November 2008
3 posts
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Almost a girl it was and issued forth From this concordant joy of song and lyre And clearly shining through her springtime veils She made herself a bed inside my ear.
And slept in me. And all things were her sleep: the trees I always marveled at, those feelable distances, the meadow felt and every wondering that befell myself.
She slept the world. You singing god, how Did you so perfect her...
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