Flaming angels of spring weave a pastoral tapestry O'er the sleepless, meadowed minds, Entreating the burning softness of summer; Freedom, resurrected in its breath, When warmly winds lick the searching faces Inhaled 'neath the rapture of its tongue. Passion seasons fruit for its victims, Nestled in pain of unrewarding sympathy; Passion is pain when my aching visions ripen To capture
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