You who made, after several trips to the shore, these beach mosaics, can tell how I have remembered the sayings which will not tarnish, how I have taken true voices and let them fall through my fingers, remorse of the heart the sleepy ancients admired which they used to create the star patterns overhead. You sought after comets and set your clocks to the Latin of an oldest Christmas. Tell me those sayings. Sing creation falling, touch it upon the harp, for you must remember that body which has lost all, lost all and lost configurations, and lost evening music.

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