Unfitly for his art.
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Am I reeling with the sap of April like a drunkard?Blessed is he that taketh this richest of cities; 14 A But it is so stainless, the sack were a thousand pities;This is that marble fortress not to be conquered, Lest its white peace in the black flame turn to tinderAnd an unutterable cinder.” They passed me once in April, in the mist. No other season is it, when one walks and discoversTwo clad in the shapes of angels, being spectral lovers,Trailing a glory of moon-gold and amethyst, Who touch their quick fingers fluttering like a birdWhose songs shall never be heard. 15
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