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For the last
time with streaming leaves
the fingers of the air between
that pass before the thunderstorm
from foliage importunate
into silver simply-formed
the olive poor is rippling, green
of art, and words, it fairly seems
were worth the fondling of no more,
but for the keenly-probing eye
and approbation of a vagrant,
but for the lily valleyed fragrant,
but for the thunderstorm drawn nigh.
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