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The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank.The windCrosses the brown land, unheard.The nymphs are departed.Sweet Slaves, run softly, till I end my song.T.S. Eliot
The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leafClutch and sink into the wet bank.The windCrosses the brown land, unheard.The nymphs are departed.Sweet Slaves, run softly, till I end my song.T.S. Eliot