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 STILL as the holy of holies breathes the vast,
Within its crystal depths the stars grow dim;
Fire on the altar of the hills at last
 Burns on the shadowy rim.
Moment that holds all moments; white upon The verge it trembles; then like mists of flowers Break from the fairy fountain of the dawn The hues of many hours.
Thrown downward from that high companionship Of dreaming inmost heart with inmost heart, Into the common daily ways I slip My fire from theirs apart.

by Yosa Buson
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