II
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ou are useless,O grave, O beautiful,the landsmen tell it--I have heard--you are useless. And the wind sounds with thisand the seawhere rollers shot with bluecut under deeper blue. O but stay tender, enchantedwhere wave-lengths cut youapart from all the rest--for we have found you,we watch the splendour of you,we thread throat on throat of freesiafor your shelf. You are not forgot,O plunder of lilies,honey is not more sweetthan the salt stretch of your beach.
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