| Out of the west the evening-colored air
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| Made a music box out of the treetops
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| A wind harp out of the stars
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| Velvet waters tumble out from the fountainhead of
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| Inspiration and played the rushes
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| Wordless song on the river sighing
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| Forgotten the pipes and the flutes of the dying
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| The air is alive with the stirrings and turnings
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| Of phrase in the twilight like petals flying
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| Into the waters and dreamily floating
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| The poet felled him a tree
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| He felled him a fir and was shriven
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| He drew from pine his boat
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| Simple, imperfect, with evergreen dressing the air
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| He fashioned boards from his longing, and
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| Sacrificed food and rest for ever
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| He forgot himself
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| Distaste in this thing surrounding him
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| Decay
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| The poet amidst the musical waters
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| Became the song and what he had
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| Dreamt of being all along |