Days |
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Some days my thoughts are just cocoons- all cold, and dull and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;
And other days they drift and shine - such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.
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Star that bringest home the bee,
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My life is vile
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But may a Rural Pen try to set forth
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