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| The force that through the green fuse drives the flower |
| Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees |
| Is my destroyer. |
| And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose |
| My youth is bent by the same wintry fever. |
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| The force that drives the water through the rocks |
| Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams |
| Turns mine to wax. |
| And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins |
| How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks. |
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| The hand that whirls the water in the pool |
| Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind |
| Hauls my shroud sail. |
| And I am dumb to tell the hanging man |
| How of my clay is made the hangman's lime. |
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| The lips of time leech to the fountain head; |
| Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood |
| Shall calm her sores. |
| And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind |
| How time has ticked a heaven round the stars. |
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| And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb |
| How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm. |
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