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W. C. SCULLY.
105
Like moths and butterflies they rise
From secret cells of waking thought,
And see strange light and come to naught,
And vanish swiftly, dewdrop-wise.
And no man knoweth where they keep
Their revels strange in waking hours;
They fleet like summer-smitten flowers,
When eyelids feel the kiss of sleep.
W. C. Scully.
