In the hope of an umpteen boon I sit
Like a star still in the spell of the night
Shunning the dole of diurnal orbit
Solo scouring mega rays of the Light
...
O you who run on this soi-disant terrace!
Laced for show that feigned rectitude
O you who lodge in anaemic palace!
And swelling in a dwindling altitude
...
How many schemes may die
In one short Afternoon
Entirely unknown
To those they most concern-
The man that was not lost
Because by accident
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