I think of that long-lost place
Of scattered fairy tales and outrageous magic
Where yet that eternal restless face
Is washed away color, except the dark and tragic
Who, like the mockingbird, sings bright
While clothed in dusky drab and gray
Attempts to hold in check dimming light
Ebbs and dies, the fading day.
Where midnight he rises to call from the night
Remembered all the varied sweet songs
He sings through the dark til morning light
No echoing voice, for which he longs
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