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The Daughters of the Palace whom they cherished in my Cities, My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May Their bridegrooms of the June-tide all have perished in my Cities, With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play. I was Lord of Cities I will build anew my Cities, Seven, set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood.
The air, prisoned in a pocket, warmed by the sun, perfumed heavily by the flowers, lay in the cup of the trees like a tepid bath. A hundred birds sang in June-tide ecstasy. But Jack Pollock, without pause, skirted this meadow, crossed the tiny silver creek that bubbled from it down the slope, and stolidly mounted a little knoll beyond.
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