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Poem by Elinor Wylie
You are a rose, but set with sharpest spine; You are a pretty bird that pecks at me; You are a little squirrel on a tree, Pelting me with the prickly fruit of the pine; A diamond, torn from a crystal mine, Not like that milky treasure of the sea, A smooth, translucent pearl, but skilfully Carven to cut, and faceted to shine. If you are flame, it dances and burns blue; If you are light, it pierces like a star Intenser than a needlepoint of ice. The dextrous touch that shaped the soul of you, Mingled, to mix, and make you what you are, Magic between the sugar and the spice.
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