The Spirit bloweth where it listeth.
The trees like feathers float amid the sunrise shine; They waft, and whirr with wind sung through their warp of leaves; They bob. Like dreams, phantasmagoria of the mind, They are ever seen, and never felt; they brush
The dazing, dawn horizon, tenderly; they want
To cross this arbitrary boundary; they want
To sail from turgid earth, into the sky; they want
To flow like clouds in waters above the firmament; To flounce and flirt; to list across the blue; to fly, and be at rest.
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