In the autumn of silver nights;
Do I see a man amiss in puerile eyes,
All expressive in tawny might?
The child giggles in silvered tantrums,
Frames that in secret silence I cherish.
In obscure depths of unmapped airways,
I am an island of strangers peevish.
I see some and they seldom do,
And often the tantrums twine in tears.
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