Wings
Beauty is so calm;
There is such passional stillness in the gaze
Of beauty: she is the balm,
The blaze.
Her hands go veiled in mist:
Brooding horizons gradually seem
Her hands: the Eucharist,
The Dream.
O whom frustration shards
And splinters in the crash with things as things,
Take what no barrier retards—
There is such passional stillness in the gaze
Of beauty: she is the balm,
The blaze.
Her hands go veiled in mist:
Brooding horizons gradually seem
Her hands: the Eucharist,
The Dream.
O whom frustration shards
And splinters in the crash with things as things,
Take what no barrier retards—
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