The notion that the carriage wheels clattering through Paris remind him of the drums from the islands in his father’s tales: clickclack sputterwhir—he could make a song of it, dance
Don’t bother a bit, you are only a dream you are having, And if when you wake your symptoms are not relieved, That is only because you harbor a morbid craving For belief in the old delusion in which you have always believed.
There's first a gloveless hand warm from my pocket, A perch and resting place 'twixt wood and wood, Bright-black-eyed silvery creature, brushed with brown
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