Even and tide, the endless apportion,
Made from the gasps of tearing and torsion.
Pushing aside the endless ague,
Grasping the pall of alternate hue,
Upward and downward the dew feathers fall,
Pointing their daggers at spectre and thrall,
Poised to accrue to a host more resplendent,
Swollen with notes and the glory ascendant.
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