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A golden wind came running down the grass And in and out the sun and shadow went The stir of blowing dresses and the tint Of scarf and leaf and laughter—ay, it was The scene for her; she sat, self-mimicking, The center of her central-whirling world, And tuned her mood to mockery, and skirled A showman's lilting flourish on the string.

Her words were swift as swallows in a gale— Darted and flashed and poised, and then in flight Essayed the Heavens, and then were vanished quite In some perplexing Orcus—ran the scale Of mirth from platypod to the eternal sprite— But never left the wares she had for sale.