The lonesome for they know not What —
The Eastern Exiles — be —
Who strayed beyond the Amber line
Some madder Holiday —
And ever since — the purple Moat
They strive to climb — in vain —
As Birds — that tumble from the clouds
Do fumble at the strain —
The Blessed Ether — taught them —
Some Transatlantic Morn —
When Heaven — was too common — to miss —
Too sure — to dote upon!
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