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ISSUE:  Spring 1928

Beauty, my bird,
That, in my younger age,
Punctually I heard
Piping in a golden cage,
Eager, as bidden, to sing,
Tethered your wing—

Now you are flown
Into wild solitudes,
Now is your flight alone
Glancing as a beam in woods
Where sweetest song is mute
To dull pursuit—

Yet when I seek
Your track as never of old,
Being now passionately meek,
As then I was proudly cold,
I hear notes divinely pitched,
As never my youth enriched.


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