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the horned branches that lean
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the man who laughs at his first breath
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coursing, & the sun is
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the thousand blinding coins of it spilling
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(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
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that is a made place, created by light
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Don’t they move like jubilation on their wheel?
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flowers like the wind.
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Chevauchent, faisans les saulx.
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with her dark body,