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And so I appeal to a voice, to something shadowy,
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summer leaned in the doorway
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My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
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a flawed star, or hand, though he remembers no hands,
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If you ask
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The real issue, of course, was this: atomically, energetically,
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Even the clumsiest fate is perfectly shaped,
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Obedient to the least command
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poetry is what
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And is this your heart arithmetic?