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Near fifty years

'n Oh! that moon

... sweet as ever.

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Incurable affliction of awe
arc of blood to golds to high crisp silvers -
... but why, why not love the moon?

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Lamps play enough
to stroll weeping pavements
and the timid counsel of trees.

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Melting nights -
orgies of secret frogs
shh ... trees still dream.

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