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SPRING, and the wispy clouds that fade away And draw the ecstatic soul in pain to aspire In maddening flight through heaven’s thin flood of fire To melt in rapture at the heart of day, The powers of the world that promise and betray Have dragged me from you in their icy ire And set me spinning at their loom, for hire, The shroud in which my senses must decay.
For hire I give myself, and cannot tell |