Lovely of Alleys

Twisted of Nights

Who signed the deed on the soul of their heart, those Evelings who yet varnish fruit? When down comes the rain, and the trees rip and swing, and they sail their own mast-posts to cloot…

With what do they shine in the dims of the dark, their beautifuls stretched for display? Who kept them running, who primed them so wrong, who came thence to disrupt sweet play?

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If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.

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Fox Kerry

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If you paint for me even one thing which is true, perhaps I’ll be tempted to consider two. I tell tales poetically, someone else needs to set them to music.

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