| When morning cast the stars aside
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| And the chill of night had all but died
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| As sleep removed its blanket pall
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| From the waking eyes of all
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| The poet stretched his limbs and dressed
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| And wandered out to see the blessed
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| Grove and mound, but with a sound
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| Of water that was not there before…
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| A singing stream had grown overnight
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| Centuries old, with smooth stones covered in moss
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| The path to the grove is overtaken
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| Its source bubbles up from under the earth
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| From the seed…
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| The poet drank sweet water from a cupped hands chalice
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| He was baptized at the stream by a mourning dove
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| All the loveliness in the world was in her
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| All the sadness flowed out into the forest and into thin air
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| Mist-wrapped trees, the tattered shrouds of night, as she
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| Beckoned downstream
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| Nothing but death, the ageless kiss of the queen
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| The most beautiful thing is the deathless unseen
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| No end to the miraculous waters that stream forth from the earth
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| And the stream grew into the blue royalty of a river
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| The cascades that tumble away like lives into the æther
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| Surged forth ceaseless like wasted time
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| As the moon grew fat with days
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| The river widened and wove its way
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| Deeper into the mist and the trees
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| As an unfinished rhyme, as a grief-laden breeze |