If I have made, my lady, intricate imperfect various things chiefly which wrong your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail) songs less firm than your body`s whitest song upon my mind - if I have failed to snare the glance too shy - if through my singing slips the very skillful strangeness of your smile the keen primeval silence of your hair - let the world say "his most wise music stole nothing from death" - you will only create (who are so perfectly alive) my shame: lady whose profound and fragile lips the sweet small clumsy feet of April came into the ragged meadow of my soul.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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