Twine then the rays
Round her soft Theban tissues.
All will be as She says,
When the dead Past reissues.
Matters not what nor where,
Hark, to the moon's dim cluster!
How was her heavy hair
Lithe as a feather-duster!
Matters not when nor whence;
Flittertigibbet!
Sound make the song, not sense,
Thus I inhibit!
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