I aspire to write
for that I often rise
under a hovering cloud
that is rather dim and misty.
I write of happy things,
the things we know of
only far in never-never land.
I do so to flee from the cloud.
Put me not in a corner
for that I too rise to lilacs,
daisies, irises, and mistletoes.
They too dwell where I live.
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