BON VOYAGE
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hild of a line accurstAnd old as Troy,Bringer of best and worstIn wild alloy--Light, like a linnet first,He sang for joy. Thrall to the gilded easeOf every day,Mocker of all degreesAnd always gay,Child of the CycladesAnd of Broadway-- Laughing and half divineThe boy began,Drunk with a woodland wineThessalian:But there was rue to twineThe pipes of Pan. Therefore he skipped and flewThe more along,Vivid and always newAnd always wrong,Knowing his only clewA siren song. Careless of each and allHe gave and spent:Feast or a funeralHe laughed and went,Laughing to be so smallIn the event. Told of his own deceitBy many a tongue,Flayed for his long defeatBy being young,Lured by the fateful sweetOf songs unsung-- Knowing it in his heart,But knowing notThe secret of an artThat few forgot,He played the twinkling partThat was his lot. And when the twinkle died,As twinkles do,He pushed himself asideAnd out of view:Out with the wind and tide,Before we knew.
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