To me at my fifth-floor window The chimney-pots in rows Are sets of pipes pandean For every wind that blows; And the smoke that whirls and eddies In a thousand times and keys Is really a visible music Set to my reveries. O monstrous pipes, melodious With fitful tune and dream, The clouds are your only audience, Her thought is your only theme!SourceThe script ran 0.008 seconds.
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