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By the Babe Unborn

If trees were tall and grasses short,
 As in some crazy tale,
If here and there a sea were blue
 Beyond the breaking pale,
 
If a fixed fire hung in the air
 To warm me one day through,
If deep green hair grew on great hills,
 I know what I should do.
 
In dark I lie; dreaming that there
 Are great eyes cold or kind,
And twisted streets and silent doors,
 And living men behind.
 
Let storm clouds come: better an hour,
 And leave to weep and fight,
Than all the ages I have ruled
 The empires of the night.
 
I think that if they gave me leave
 Within the world to stand,
I would be good through all the day
 I spent in fairyland.
 
They should not hear a word from me
 Of selfishness or scorn,
If only I could find the door,
 If only I were born.
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