Below the breeze of envy notwithstanding,
Away from the greazy scorch of our work the young greet the Earth
With marvelous insults.
A mist pleases the imagination with its feathery shade and days
Shoot leaves between
Their dreaming fingers--
Inches above the dirt. We have always relied on the grace of youth,
While those sleepwalking hands spring open to clench a
Tuft of their sun.
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