II
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eace, this hid riot, Change,This revel of quick-cued mumming,This never truly being,This evermore becoming,This spinner’s wheel onfleeingOutside perception’s range. 1917. “I WAS NOT HE”(SONG) I WAS not he—the manWho used to pilgrim to your gate,At whose smart step you grew elate,And rosed, as maidens can,For a brief span. It was not I who sangBeside the keys you touched so trueWith note-bent eyes, as if with youIt counted not whence sprangThe voice that rang . . . Yet though my destinyIt was to miss your early sweet,You still, when turned to you my feet,Had sweet enough to beA prize for me!
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