| Her delicate foot in the woodlands, fraught |
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| The Giant of Night wore ruby Mars |
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| By the wanderer's ear in the forest free |
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| One amethyst gleam of the sunset gone |
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| To the yellow star-clusters of primrose bright? |
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| Now and then a friend and some sauterne |
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| To F. C |
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| But we have mortal form, material tissue |
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| And yet, Earine, do violets white |
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| Death is the ocean of immortal rest |
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