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them as air. The soul of the night, of the 

 chase, has gone into your blood you are 

 drunken as with new wine. Sleep comes 

 to you tardily, but of a sweetness before 

 undreamed such sleep as truly 



" Knits up the ravelled sleave of care." 



If you wake late, what matter ? Daylight 

 is garish, commonplace cheaply exchanged 

 in any measure for such glamour of sound 

 and sight as last night knew. 



