The World — feels Dusty
When We stop to Die —
We want the Dew — then —
Honors — taste dry —

Flags — vex a Dying face —
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend’s Hand —
Cools — like the Rain —

Mine be the Ministry
When they Thirst comes —
And Hybla Balms —
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch —

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