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After you speak And what you meant Is plain, My eyes Meet yours that mean, With your cheeks and hair, Something more wise, More dark, And far different. Even so the lark Loves dust And nestles in it The minute Before he must Soar in lone flight So far, Like a black star He seems - A mote Of singing dust Afloat Above, The dreams And sheds no light. I know your lust Is love.
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