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For M.W.

 There is no transcience of twilight in
 The beauty of your soft dusk-dimpled face,
 No flicker of a slender flame in space,
In crucibles, fragility crystalline.
There is no fragrance of the jessamine About you, no pathos of some old place At dusk, that crumbles like moth-eaten lace Beneath the touch.
Nor has there ever been.
Your love is like the folk-song's flaming rise In cane-lipped southern people, like their soul Which burst its bondage in a bold travail; Your voice is like them singing, soft and wise, Your face, sweetly effulgent of the whole, Inviolate of ways that would fail.

by Jean Toomer
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