Come closer, build on me. . . . My land has wrapped her
History round me in a sevenfold quilt,
Whose layers are towns.
A crass and tinny scepter,
Such as the brasher kind of dynasts tilt,
Is all my courtyard holds of my first tribe.
Their names? Their fame? No interesting guilt
Of Overreach coaxed footnotes from a scribe;
Their centuries were rain my gutters swilled.
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