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A crescent moon light grasping her hair
With the blue-black threads of wisdom she waved the icicle-hand;
‘Come to my eyes, into my own imagination!’ and
I endeavored, but failed to move my feet only to sigh
Grumbling to myself ‘What an idiot you are!
If you don't disentangle green threads and seaweeds that tie
Your feet up as steadily as your heart ticks on,
Her vague and vigorous lips will tell you.’
‘All my enthusiasm evaporated to remain a handful of dew’
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