In the early dew and morn's delight,
The droppings of the mountain scents along,
The earthly mews of a nightingale's flight;
Dip light and soft and gently swooping there,
On balances in hearts weight and golden,
By none fanged, foamed, or raggedly fair,
Jingle-jangle-jingle, sweet and olden;
Cut off from stormy winter's breathing;
Cancerous's the Night snowy slumber hat'd;
Cored from out such wretched hoary seething
Cat-nip on the carpet, gone now and faded;
I've never been but on a wind chime song,
And never heard it's likeness beat this wrong.
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