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Drying Their Wings

 What the Carpenter Said

THE moon's a cottage with a door.
Some folks can see it plain.
Look, you may catch a glint of light, A sparkle through the pane, Showing the place is brighter still Within, though bright without.
There, at a cosy open fire Strange babes are grouped about.
The children of the wind and tide-- The urchins of the sky, Drying their wings from storms and things So they again can fly.

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