Sunset On a Day Off

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As eyeing tomorrow looks past today,

It seems best to let these shadows have their play:

Tomorrow will come. For now, that sweetens the hour,

In time as the bitter exerts its power.

And as each season does, in time, unfold,

Each one compresses fast whatever it holds.

And as Minerva’s owl spreads its wings,

It flies, nonetheless, in the sunlight of dreams.

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