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 I have grown weary of the winds of heaven. I will not be a reed to hold the sound Of whatsoever breath the gods may blow, Turning my torment into music for them. They gave me life; the gift was bountiful, I lived with the swift singing strength of fire, Seeking for beauty as a flame for fuel— Beauty in all things and in every hour. The gods have given life—I gave them song; The debt is paid and now I turn to go.

The breath of dawn blows the stars out like lamps, There is a rim of silver on the sea, As one grown tired who hopes to sleep, I go.

Oh Litis, little slave, why will you sleep? These long Egyptian noons bend down your head Bowed like the yarrow with a yellow bee. There, lift your eyes no man has ever kindled,