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SLEEPING BUDS
                      Performed imperfectly,
conceived, not duly born; 
                      not found entirely,
entirely not forlorn, 
                      thus lies many a rhyme
biding, unripe in me, 
                      the pleasurable time
of speakability. 

                      Thus sleep the bushes’ buds,
recondite and concealed; 
                      no flower yet unfurled,
no leaf till now revealed; 
                      but leaf and flower lie,
embedded eagerly 
                      biding the day, the dawn . . .
the full parturiency.