The Butterfly
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<br> This evening the moon dreams more lazily<br /> As some fair woman, lost in cushions deep<br /> With gentle hand caresses listlessly<br /> The contour of her breasts before she sleeps<br /> On velvet backs of avalanches soft<br /> She often lies enraptured as she dies<br /> And gazes on white visions aloft<br /> Which like a blossoming to heaven rise<br /> When sometimes on this globe, in indolence<br /> She lets a secret tear drop down, by chance<br /> A poet, set against oblivion<br /> Takes in his hand this pale and furtive tear<br /> This opal drop where rainbow hues appear<br /> And hides it in his breast far from the sun <br><br><br><br> <br>
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