A moon-white moth against the moon,
A sea-blue raindrop in the sea,
A grain of pollen on the air,
This little virgin soul might be.
As if a passing breath of wind
Should stir the poplars in the night,
Her wondrous spirit woke from sleep,
And shivered with unknown delight,
As if a sudden garden door
Should open in a granite wall,
She trembled at the brink of joy,
So great and so ephemeral.
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