Life is heartless, even though it has a heart that beats
Me frail, both because the moon sets and the sunrise
Glitters when dawn grows pale; maidens of ivory,
Why do you blush when it grows cold?
The rains are bitter and the frosts taste
Something less than sweet. My hands burn, then
These palpitations grow. Thrum of thunder,
Sleet, and hail: life is a three-fold canticle;
I drag my chains, shiver, hum.
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