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When the dawn chanted in his dew, and wheatfields walked in the morning, oh habitude unheard, undreamed! I wore ragged leather and polished wood, forming shepherd and bugle in the muddy undertow of rivers, and Senta barked circles, loving her fluttering toy. When day rolled upon the thatch, and the poplar reeled his noon ballet, silence cracking in the forest, I picked my ground through acorns of billows, evading a needled skull in the antpile, and sun, fashioned of the earth, swung into heaven on his branch-wing. When evening gathered his arms to the nest, and the dotted stones began to smell dark, in the door of her day she smiled, blowing her velvet ribbons, as someone, being soft and rosy in passing, tossed from one marble to the next and cried at nothing her eternal more. When the night walked windows accidentally, and the roof spoke of dreaming sparrows, down curling and relaxed under feathers, the gray frock scattered his ocean, painting a multicolored gloss, and she, being music and melody beyond her apron, huddled in her voice a thousand castles.
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