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ITHE VINE
TO screen this depth of shade that sleeps,
Beyond the garden's shine,
On José's careful strings there creeps
A little slender vine.

José is kind . . . but age is cold:
My laughter meets his sigh.
The house is old the garden old—
Oh, young, the vine and I!

I love the web of light it weaves
Across my half-drawn thread;
It's speech to me of waking leaves,
While José hears his Dead.

So, ever reaching, tendril-fine,
My eager visions run;
So, as the long day passes, twine
My thoughts, shot through with sun.

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