These feelings

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These feelings

These feelings

In the softest shades of the night He spoke to me, Of chasing lions from the mountains To the level of the sea, Of curious, frozen fingers Upon aged sycamore trees, Of the feelings he has, But cannot give freely. It has long seemed a wonder to me, How words sputter forth Clouded mysteries, How these fragments of passion Pierce our vitality, Syllables shelled and cracked By the mouths of gluttony. It does little good to wish, I know, as the river runs to the sea In its own good time; but for me, Darkness swims beneath This lush valley

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