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only where moon and music collide
do i conceive a dream more even than summer—
this quavering note
held steady as frost creeps chromatically
Up and into your emerald eye,
as gray wakes in your voice
and your lips bloom into stone

this quivering hand
could be still in yours
and where there be tears
there could too be rain

and so long as i go on yearning,
this world(through autumn and winter
and spring)will go on turning