A prelude to the open draft from the brush of the groves,
All during the opening of the late hour,
The eons are waiting, while my foot taps—taps—taps,
With a breath from the seams of the warmth outcast,
As the dusk begins to be estranged,
Beginning to scorn, and plenty itself in the eyes,
Of all who watch the billows confound.
While the death of the wind collects itself, alas,
And then braces again—again to the inward conversation,
During the declamations and soliloquy’s,
During the rhapsodic event,
That it was with all fright, with all fright,
That the tree’s eye was as dead as her lady’s.
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