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Harken to it troat
Close to the acacias
in April the shoot
viridian of peas!
In its clear vapor,
to Phoebe! you see
the heads shaking
of saints that used to be…
Far from bright ricks
of capes, fair housetops,
these dear Ancients wish
that deep love potion…
Gold nor ferial
nor astral! that’s
the mist exhaled
by that night effect.
And still they rest
—Germany, Sicily,
in that fogbank triste
and wan, precisely!
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