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Of all that's seen, too little is seen. Of all that's felt, too little is felt. Expressions of a rose are dreamed within. The dreamless are without. The cricket's song is a symphony, The voice of the vultured soul a shout. A dream of clouded vision stands To walk within a different land Where leaves fall not but rise to bloom And wait upon the guide cocoon; Showing what none want to see But what they all could someday be. Melodious the flute of pain Leads on the laughing faces Through the crying rain. Crumbling rocks begin to fall To build the hollow, shrouded walls So precious to the dreamless eye, None waited for the butterfly. |