Dust
Tiny atoms of dust
Wavering down the wind!
And they might have been the heart of the rose,
Or the fragrant drift of apple-snows,
Or the quince's cloven rind.
Beauty flees as a dream
When the morning twilight wanes,
Fades like the harvest aureole,
But ever the fragile, breathing soul
Of loveliness remains!
Wavering down the wind!
And they might have been the heart of the rose,
Or the fragrant drift of apple-snows,
Or the quince's cloven rind.
Beauty flees as a dream
When the morning twilight wanes,
Fades like the harvest aureole,
But ever the fragile, breathing soul
Of loveliness remains!
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