MID-FLIGHT
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e rush, a black throng,Straight upon darkness:Motes scatteredBy the arc's rays. Over the bridge fluttering,It is theatre-time,No one heeds. Lost amid greennessWe will sleep all night;And in the morningComing forth, we will shake wet wingsOver the settled dust of to-day. The city hurls its cobbled streets after us,To drive us faster. We must attain the nightBefore endless processionsOf lampsPush us back.A clock with quivering handsLeaps to the trajectory-angle of our departure. We leave behind pale traces of achievement:Fires that we kindled but were too tired to put out,Broad gold fans brushing softly over dark walls,Stifled uproar of night.
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