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Oxen of the Sun 398
Polished hands point to luckless joy
Replaced by pictures of good
A wet umbrella in a circle
The thunder is a simple, imperfect passion
A violent god
A speech of petty tyranny
We quit the instant
The eye wanders from a far worse tomorrow
This, then is our more accomplished disorder
We affect tenderness
Remember me when you welcome the new day.
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