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At Long Last

 

When I awake from this long sleep

what shall my eyes behold?

My pillow is a willow wreath,

My bed a slab of stone.

The willow dips to greet the morn

And glistens now with glee,

The stone the rising sun ignores,

Immobile yet at peace.

The sculptor when he fashioned me

Could never reach my heart.

Why then do I feel it beat?

Slow is the hour of art.

 

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