715
 
The World—feels Dusty
When We stop to Die—
We want the Dew—then—
Honors—taste dry—
 
Flags—vex a Dying face—
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend’s Hand—
Cools—like the Rain—
 
Mine be the Ministry
When they Thirst comes—
And Hybla Balms—
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch—

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