The garden scatters burnt-up beetles Like brazen ash, from braziers burst. I witness, by my lighted candle, A newly blossomed universe. And like a not yet known religion I enter this unheard of night, In which the shabbily-grey poplar Has curtained off the lunar light. The pond is a presented secret. Oh, whispers of the appletree! The garden hangs-a pile construction, And holds the sky in front of me.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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