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And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

Let the healing fountain start,

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

Now, hearing the wind and the twanging bow-strings,

Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,

The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door

And drank my blood for a year,

I do not think that they will sing to me.

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

Not God but a swastika

And the garden darkens.

Singing for the dying soul,