How beautifully the rushing glass,All molten gold across the stones,Pours into pools of cloud and sky,Paints a scrim across the deep.Yesterday the milky grassMade a blanket for the bonesOf all the birds who questioned why,Trilling wonder in their cheep.How magically the morning brassEases our phantasmic moans,Ripples salmon in the eye‘Ere the gauzy end of sleep.So, too, the syllables that passDirectly over silent thrones,And thoughts that, graceful, slide right byYon mysteries that dragons keep.

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