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Arbor Song
The vine on the trellis
Weaves under and over,
Under and over, weaves,
Over and under—
To the constant frame the ever inconstant wonder,
Looseness of leaves
And cling of the tendril twining,
O intricate! O rare!
Even space, even air,
Part of the order and becomingness,
Blossom as grace-note, all,
Whether moving or still,
So perfectly designed
That the sight is the sound,
No more and no less,
Beautiful, musical.