t to some palace-floor,

        Most gracious singer of high poems ! where

        ting, from the care

        Of c lips for more.

        And dost t tcoo poor

        For    think and bear

        to let thy music drop here unaware

        In folds of golden fulness at my door ?

        Look up a broken in,

        ts and os builders in the roof !

        My cricket c thy mandolin.

        her proof

        Of desolation ! thin

        t    sing . . . alone, aloof
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