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At the Spring of Dreams
From whence this tide which swells as salt
where dreams arise which come to naught?
Where dreams are castles made of sand
then swept away by ocean’s hand?
Though yet this spring does not desist
that pours fourth dreams as promises.
Such siren songs upon the rocks
which draws doomed sailors from their docks.
Yet we, who sleep on beds of down,
perish in our dreams, we sink and drown
Where springs forth this cold of heart
and these dreams which lead us all to naught?
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