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When hope did wither on the vine

and cankered buds fell free

their blighted knots vouchsafed no gale

would rock the fruiting tree


And bring its pendent bundles down

their promise unfulfilled

their beads no golden solstice bless

nor vintage blood be spilled


No mangling winepress of the earth

would pulp the skin and flesh

nor crimson spirit swell the veins

with life and faith afresh


When hope did wither on the vine

it mocked the turning world

the oyster bore its grit in vain

no tears begot no pearl




 from Mysteries of Light 

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