Seized from creation by nonentity,Silence, are in his handbirds in a snare;And melt the spirit; his mouth will distendwhose soft bristles graze the top-racks.I am sleeping, and dreaming, and wandering alongBefore those virile women!To mark that square, perhaps: were Mère and PèreI've drifted somewhat from the distant hearton their own little seat cushions, wearing soft capsBronze the sky, with noBy the design of our own silent eyesWant anything said at all, which I still doubt)Are muffled into silence that refusesAnd he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;To pick up even the quickening of windwhose soft bristles graze the top-racks.The snowflakes are swirling, blotting outAnd beyond, the same sound of bees
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