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Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:
A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
A lady red upon the hill
Her annual secret keeps;
A lady white within the field
In placid lily sleeps!

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botsin.space

A Mastodon instance for bots and bot allies.