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 I hate the bright streams of perfection,
 * The words that are golden and wise,
 * Triumphantly noble in pain;

The Spirits in fierce insurrection,
 * But calm as the tent of the skies,—
 * I hate, for I cannot attain.

Songs breathed to the tremulous ditties
 * Of broken and harsh violins,
 * Songs hinting the rose and the vine,

Half drowned in the roar of red cities,
 * And youthfully pleased at their sins,
 * These songs I adore: they are mine.