In the evening’s quiet gilded lull,
Other thoughts are summoned,
Thoughts busy diurnal mortals
Neither know nor miss,
And in that spell time itself
Appears to crack, if not more
Than through the faintest hairline
From eternity’s noiseless whiff
When behind a chosen, rare face
Another — timeless and much deeper —
Could be rising from beneath:
Oh, Orpheus, why do you summon
What for all the others no longer lives,
Yet will not admit their common time?
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