My bones are made of glass
The transparency of which has
Undoubtedly paid its due.
Too long, too lonesome have I been crystal clear
I should towards mystery my charms steer
Hide furtively that I hold dear
The quality of your dew.
But should I to you act a dream
Of the lowest morality will I seem:
A deceitful merchant giving you for free
What in others you'll find is plenty.
Yet true, to you, were I
That will not your eyes satisfy
And my own graceful song, unheard
Will die.
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