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Poem	As in sleeping-drink spices softly she loosens in the liquid-clear mirror her fatigued demeanor; and she puts her smile deep inside. And she waits while the liquid rises from it; then she pours her hair into the mirror, and, lifting one wondrous shoulder from the evening gown, she drinks quietly from her image. She drinks what a lover would drink feeling dazed, searching it, full of mistrust; and she only beckons to her maid when at the bottom of her mirror she finds candles, wardrobes, and the cloudy dregs of a late hour.
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