but the other
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but the other day i was passing a certain gate rain fell as it will in spring ropes of silver gliding from sunny thunder into freshness as if god's flowers were pulling upon bells of gold i looked up and thought to myself death and will You with elaborate fingers possibly touch the pink hollyhock existence whose pansy eyes look from morning till night into the street unchangingly the always old lady sitting in her gentle window like a reminiscence partaken softly at whose gate smile always the chosen flowers of reminding |
