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Poem	In the high leaves of a walnut, On the very topmost boughs, A boy that climbed the branching bole His cradled limbs would house. On the airy bed that rocked him Long, idle hours he'd lie Alone with white clouds sailing The warm blue of the sky. I remember not what his dreams were; But the scent of a leaf's enough To house me higher than those high boughs In a youth he knew not of, In a light that no day brings now But none can spoil or smutch, A magic that I felt not then And only now I touch.
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