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The poet, sleeping fev'rishly
clothes with his throbbing, tear-gilt dreams,
a poet of divinity,
whose flame-verse runs like limpid streams.

Then on this new born seraph, he
bestows his midnight song unsung,
and lights his eyes with that fire's sea
that cruelly his dread depths has wrung.

Life's fleeting breath he finally
begins to blow into his face,
but fails, and 'midst tha ashes, he
awakens in a wind swept space.

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The following comments are for "Untitled"
by marigold

I love your sharp imagery. Easy to comapare with Percy Shelley.

( Posted by: BAAL [Member] On: June 22, 2005 )

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