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To The Chief Musician Upon Nabla: A Tyndallic Ode

Rating: 2.7
I.

I come from fields of fractured ice,
Whose wounds are cured by squeezing,
Melting they cool, but in a trice,
Get warm again by freezing.
Here, in the frosty air, the sprays
With fernlike hoar-frost bristle,
There, liquid stars their watery rays
Shoot through the solid crystal.
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6/16/2021 5:28:56 PM # 1.0.0.630