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February 24th
A spell of fine soft weather.
Tonight, on my way home, I took a long look at
the president's house.
The white portico--palace like, tall, round columns.
The tender and soft moonlight flooding the pale marble,
and making peculiar, faint languishing shades
--not shadows.
Everywhere a soft transparent hazy, thin, blue moon-lace
hanging in the air.
Everything so white, so pure and dazzling--yet soft.
The White House of our future dreams and dramas--
full of reality, full of illusion--the White House of our
land, and of beauty and of the night -- sentries at the gate--
silent, pacing blue overcoats--not stopping me, but eyeing
me with sharp eyes--whichever way I move.
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