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Heaven-invading hills are drowned
       In wide moving waves of mist,
Phlox before my door are wound
       In dripping wreaths of amethyst.
 
Ten feet away the solid earth
       Changes into melting cloud,
There is a hush of pain and mirth,
       No bird has heart to speak aloud.
 
Here in a world without a sky,
       Without the ground, without the sea,
The one unchanging thing is I,
       Myself remains to comfort me.
Other works by Sara Teasdale...



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