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 the ruse to fix and name her chaste With those who sleep the spring through, one and one, Cool nights, when laurel builds up, without haste, Its precise flower, like a pentagon.

In her obedient breast, all that ran free You thought to bind, like echoes in a shell. At the year's end, you promised, it would be The unstrung leaves, and not her heart, that fell.

So the year broke and vanished on the screen You cast about her; summer went to haws. This, by your leave, is what she should have been,— Another man will tell you what she was. [ 15 ]