for what we're apt we may not always tell
there's not much room for honour to take form
we wait in vain for the returning storm
we listen to the music rise and swell
the shapes it makes assemble and deform
for what we're apt we may not always tell
the direst sound of all is the slow knell
what's best of all is soft and gently warm
and somewhere in between we find the norm
for what we're apt we may not always tell
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