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Rh That world where they grow volatile and fling A spray of golden butterflies a-wing Up through the blue infinities of dream To brush God's feet, and flutter, wings a-gleam, About the veinless marble of His chair, And make a sudden splendor through His hair;

That world where they drift ghostly down the dusk Of old forgotten twilights, toss the musk Of primroses against his face who reads, Make prayers from the clicking of old beads, Blow long dead summers through the naked trees Leaf after leaf, call back faint memories Of lips that once were sweet, and eyes once glad, And little hands that set the spirit mad With plucking of invisible lute strings,— All, all the vanished magic of dead things.