It is grass.
It is monotonous.
 
The monotony
Is like your port which conceals
All your characters
And their desires.
 
I might make many images of this
And twang nobler notes
Of larger sentiment.
 
But I invoke the monotony of monotonies
Free from images and change.
 
Why should I savor love
With tragedy or comedy?
 
Clasp me,
Delicatest machine.

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