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Dark is the
forest and deep, and overhead
Hang stars like seeds
of light
In vain, though not since they were sown was
bred
Anything more bright.
And evermore mighty
multitudes ride
About, nor enter in;
Of the other
multitudes that dwell inside
Never yet was one seen.
The forest foxglove is purple, the marguerite
Outside is gold and white,
Nor can those that pluck
either blossom greet
The others, day or night.
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