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Perfection is only a promise 
Of a china glass half full
Yet china is china is beauty
And beauty is beauty yet dull
Write me this instant right now
Til the pencil is withered and gone
And the trees are still paper or silver
The night is still dark is still young
Perfection is only a promise
Of notebooks left empty left dry
And windows unopened less sultry
As water on stardust on rye