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If, in the glow of thy reverent tongue
Too zealously gentle to startle,
He should purr himself to a soft slumber,
Bee not by it offended, but grateful.
For he hath given thee his trusting heart,
Monstrous, we, luxurious liberties,
And time enough to pause for poetry,
A sketch, a sip of wine, and – ever anon –
The assurance of pleasures still to come.
