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A land of leaning ice
Hugged by plaster-grey arches of sky,
Flings itself silently
Into eternity.
“Has no one come here to win you,
Or left you with the faintest blush
Upon your glittering breasts?
Have you no memories, O Darkly Bright?”
Cold-hushed, there is only the shifting
of moments
That journey toward the no Spring—
No birth, no time, no death, nor sun
In answer.
Hart Crane
