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The Sun Doth Spill

The sun doth spill its shining light;
Bits and pieces filched from its flight
The trees do quiver and ripple does the lake;
A shimmering warmth ’tis left in its wake.
Hurtling through existence, no accordance to time;
Knowing none, yet of all—its brilliance sublime!
But the light doth end its journey here,
Spilling over my books as I sit silently near.



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