Scraps of paper in a hat,
paying royalties like dreams, seemingly random in human expression.
As he sipped his scraps of paper in a hat,
he cannot sing without random thoughts and any kind of word in it—
As herself, to Nowhere seemed to go.
Her pretty parasol was seen, contracting on, "Shakespeare.”
Till from scraps of dreams, seemingly random, keep society,
till sundown crept, a steady tide,
and men that made
worked,
and flower blew.
This audience strays abroad
on worked,
and flower fog, obscure—
clovers understood.
Repairing Everywhere,
pulled from round a pretty parasol of idleness
disdained them, from the sky that made the hay,
and afternoon, and butterfly,
extinguished in its sea.
Where parties, phantom as herself,
to Nowhere seemed to go
in purposeless circumference.
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