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 Her little hot room looked over the bay
Through a stiff palisade of glinting palms,
And there she would lie in the heat of the day,
Her dark head resting upon her arms,
So quiet, so still, she did not seem
To think, to feel, or even to dream.
The shimmering, blinding web of sea Hung from the sky, and the spider sun With busy frightening cruelty Crawled over the sky and spun and spun.
She could see it still when she shut her eyes, And the little boats caught in the web like flies.
Down below at this idle hour Nobody walked in the dust street; A scent of a dying mimosa flower Lay on the air, but sweet--too sweet.

by Katherine Mansfield
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