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       Like fruits, shaken free by an impatient tree,   From the veil of its seed a growth of shrubs;   And ye be shrub; and thou flower,   Thou comest, the soothing flame, in gentle breeze   Of whirling in frantic dance        Amidst the the wind-lashed cloud and infuriate shower,   Whilst trampled by thy turbulence doth   Scattered all thy fate in an eddying agony to death.   Yet in the tempest of mood,   Doth i write this trying to be Keats   But ye know how thy Keats ain’t   And ye Knowth the Best.        Of yore in a sour wait of moment;   No lobby for playing ye charm,   For doth I not your prince charming;   Wait; and let live the life; for it unwraps   The hope of ye, fulfill.    
