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My song of magic’s not an ancient charm
Sealing both awful ghost and friendly sprite
It has no power and it does no harm
It shows my face short-handed – plain and white.
My song is not an ocean, but a spot
Of rotten pools, of sewers, springs infected,
Shores unmindful of tides (but shores of what?):
It’s just the cup you have daily rejected.
My song of hunger’s neither lean nor faint,
It will grow up and never reel or fall;
With eager, hot desires will acquaint
Either I’m wealthy or, down, on the dole,
It will increase being starved or satisfied -
But waiting time into time lost will glide.
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