| Blood circulates slowly through unhurried and thoughtful veins
|
| He sat in his body and wondered how the sweetest of his strains
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| Could ever lay a bow to the violin before him
|
| Ended is the passing at the silent, secret gate
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| Where the temple universal stole away in sublimation
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| The garden was like brilliance unto the blindman without measure
|
| Entranced by the advent of oblivion
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| He lay back in his boat, his arms poised to
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| Embrace the entirety in one embrace and throw open its doors
|
| And he died at the gate that will not open
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| That will not open for the flesh that is weak
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| Unknown and nameless, the lyric of the ghost
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| Haunts the garden and the gate and is happy
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| The ideal outlasts the flesh that is weak
|
| Yes, and the well outlasts the drought that is momentary
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| Trees in the garden that tower and sway
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| Raise up their boughs to whisper and pray
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| A sweet gale swept in, the breath of the poet
|
| And loosed another seed to fall in the hamlet
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| The eye of Leviathan that fell from the sky
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| To enchant the lonely, to love and to die |