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The measured words of poetry
   Rise round the mystic sphere,
Sift through the dirt or sing divine
   In strains that soothe or sear.

But now the stanzas halt and freeze:
   Eternity is stilled –
The dog looks guilty at the door
   The poet’s muse is chilled.

Goodbye 'the crescent in the sky
   Reaping a horde of crows,'
Holding his breath, he scoops the mess.
   The muse must hold her nose.