Of this wrought child whose hands
Replace all other mornings
And whose fingers orchestrate
The long grass swaying she cannot see
Poppa play with me she says
Her gaze curved to the years
Of air and pleasure equally
What can I do I break down
In thirty years I have not seen
Such beauty in one place
Not even the still twilight
Which at times I love
More than human things
Rivals her still sleep
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