We live the way each trice gets less
From Azure’s hue and from its ray,
And my life’s rye-coloured shirt’s
Broider becomes a tow grey.
There pale the petals of the hour
Of lilies of the light and hope,
Still, stubbornly, I’m looking for
Some thing whose breath does never stop.
And, to all World, I tell the tales,
The...
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