Life is made of both:
The rigorous, the slow
And in seven woven days
We are complete.
All men have their flourishes
And some even their loves,
But past the weeping gates
We are replete.
And so we must give pardon,
The joyful head forgive,
When without the willow trees
You find conceit.
The ache of birthing freedom,
The loveliest of pains
Belongs alone to melancholy;
And thus we shall repeat.
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