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A PHILOSOPHER ON A MOUNTAIN IN SCYTHIA We shall come hack at last to the Lord Snow After the Lord Fire is quenched at last. His gray, antique mantle will cover neatly The eyeballs' nightmare of hue and diversity. White will be black when the Lord Snow is master, Under his coat completing the last reduction. Lord, the wound that the Lord Fire branded Hot as a heart, deep as seventy years, Heal, the touch of whose mild fingers is peace. A vista of vague flakes like a fmmed star-field Falling in unison to ztnity. [36] ...

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