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Faint melody airily gliding;
Tales from centuries of ripe times,
Tragedies of sour,
The whisper, where my heart's residing.
Not one, but many a kind of minds,
Sprout to aching flower.
Storms shove, silkily, slowly bending,
Fair melody resembl'ng whining;
Flower passes on power;
Ending. Withering away, wilting.
Fair melody a new sprout finds;
Bend, but never cower.
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