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days endeared to every muse
i am the wind that wavers
weak-winged is song
the meadow was creeping
uplifting, as the wind blew
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
when freedom from her mountain height
i saw the first pear
in an old chamber softly lit
under a spreading chestnut tree
this is the arsenal
often is it not so?
i am a woman
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things

 



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