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Rh Threaten in smoke;—why, look you, we're a-verge Of worlds undreamt, and every silly fist That curses God's a sign! There's wondrous grist A-grinding, wondrous new-sown corn a-surge.'

New worlds! These things were seedling in dead Cain. But you, for you old magics yet remain Of restless whispering winds that press along Dim casements of the sense-enshuttered brain. Beauty has called you, and the worlds that wane From crescent into crescent of thin song.