Stand on the highest pavement of the stair
Lean on a garden urn
Weave, weave, weave the sunlight in your hair
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise
Fling them to the ground and turn
With fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.
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(from "La Figlia Che Piange" by T.S. Elliot)
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