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O Truant Muse…
The bird of prey, the short-toed eagle,
he is my Muse.
The shadow of a smile will cross his lips,
and probably some day
he will abate the points of his barbed arrows,
in face of timid foreign rhymer.
Gold in the blue. Bijou-like poems.
A sunless coral palace from a book.
The journey downwards the fading sun.
A Doric temple by the water's edge.
The rest is trumpery.
