In this dancing blue planet, There's a chink of air my own, Where I store my dreams in stacks Like precious leaves pressed in gold, And pull panels of my thoughts Round me in flaming green silk From a scrap of Northern Lights, For my nest among the stars, And any criticisms I pile by my keyhole latch For kindling on windy nights. When I wonder who I am, I must hurry back to here, Shinnying up a buckwheat stalk; And supping on buttercups, I ponder slow the question, And I find most proudly sure, I'm nobody else but me.

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