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Updated: May 13, 2025
It then gets knotted, looped, and all up-jumbled, And long before I get it straight again, unwumbled, To make my verse or story, The interfering sun has risen And burst with passion through my silky prison To melt it down in dew, Like so much spider-gossamer or fairy-cotton. Don't you? I call it rotten! A hushed silence followed. Eyes sought the fire. No one spoke for several minutes.
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