All the fine fire sun sends down.

The leaving green, the heaving sea, the air 

Cool as a dream of snow in Africa,

The rare rich minerals of the earth, singing wind – 

These fine things do not remind me of you,

No, you make them, in their tracks, their places and

Without you they are not, no, nothing is:

Only some wan and lightless vacuum

Where a faint sound rings sadly because a possibility

Of your being hovered, ah, but it never came to be. 

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