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This great purple butterfly，
In the prison of my hands，
Has a learning in his eye
Not a poor fool understands.
once he lived a schoolmaster
With a stark1， denying look；
A string of scholars went in fear
Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell，
Sweet and harsh， harsh and sweet，
That is how he learnt so well
To take the roses for his meat.
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