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EVER tell me that not one star of all That slip from heaven at night and softly fall Has been picked up with stones to build a wall.

Some laborer found one faded and stone cold, And saving that its weight suggested gold, And tugged it from his first too certain hold,

He noticed nothing in it to remark. He was not used to handling stars thrown dark And lifeless from an interrupted arc.

He did not recognize in that smooth coal The one thing palpable besides the soul To penetrate the air in which we roll.

He did not see how like a flying thing It brooded ant-eggs, and had one large wing, One not so large for flying in a ring,

And a long Bird of Paradise's tail, (Though these when not in use to fly and trail It drew back in its body like a snail);

Nor know that he might move it from the spot The harm was done; from having been star-shot The very nature of the soil was hot