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— 80 —
whose tuneful wood
and stringish undergrowth
are ghosts existing
without being
save to come with juice
and pulp to assuage
the hungers which
the night reveals
so that now at last
the truth's aglow
with devilish peace
forestalling day
which dawns tomorrow
with dreadful reds
the heart to predicate
with mists that loved
the ocean and the fields —
Thus moonlight
is the perfect
human touch
