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 of seeing the stars turning over you and the sun going to his rest and you frozen with a great lie that leaves you rigid as a knight on a marble coffin?

—and you, higher, still, robin, untwisting a song from the bare top-twigs, are you not weary of labor, even the labor of a song?

Come down—join me for I am lonely.

First it will be a quiet pace to ease our stiffness but as the west yellows you will be ready!