Aug 272011
 

Before the geese upon the water have begun their day,
Before cold dawn could allay the winter's deep dream of May,
Or any symbolical host fly out of the dark, as it must,
The thoughtful song, drawn like yarn out of a beggar's breast,
And which had illuminated pride, so weak was the world's way,
Unseen ages, like the bird with the silver ball for a soul,
Died dreaming in that beggar's breast, before he could awake from the dust.     
  

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