  Who can make a delicate adventure Of walking on the ground? Who can make grass-blades Arcades for pertly careless straying? You alone, who skim against these leaves, Turning all desire into light whips Moulded by your deep blue wing-tips, You who shrill your unconcern Into the sternly antique sky. You to whom all things Hold an equal kiss of touch. Mincing, wanton blue-bird, Grimace at the hoofs of passing men. You alone can lose yourself Within a sky, and rob it of its blue! |
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