-
the heart does, actually, ache
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I think it is September, September.
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Freaks of bright crystal, airy beauties fair,
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You turn your head —
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Among shoes, I am the one with the pebble,
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A certain kind of Eden holds us thrall.
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To have a heart like this
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Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
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Be still sometimes.
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I live alone, like pith in a tree,
