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 10. this scabbard’s free Youthigh-armedrifted trunks all knotted, Licensed to war’s disdain on this tiny isle of scabbard, Tooth-tetched, tending sun-shaded swart And hearty love of myrtle leaves above, Orion, sky-arrested ruse to sigh and lunge In careless acts, rude and very flecked With ticks on deer and dear ones that have run. Home to stowaways new-wallowed in expected isle that bower your eyes in strung boughs, You ring the solar vanishing magicians And witches (life so hid behind mythic know-how) Thaw that infernal spell, those incantations Humdrum; few torpors brew in the mind To weave some figment of itself behind.  ...

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