| Piling it high in a perilous drift |
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| Far off, the old sea's resonant boom |
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| 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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| Now and then a friend and some sauterne |
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| To F. C |
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| Anacreon's tettix, singing in the trees |
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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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