An Ode to the Two-Dot Ellipsis
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Thou still incomplete bride of punctuation
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Thou bastard child of short silence and slow speech
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Ozymandian semicolon, lying in the sand
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Thy decrepit, pointed symmetry sweetly does beseech
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What ink-drenched legend haunts about thy shape
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Of famed writers or mortals, or both
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In novels or the halls of Acad’my
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What men or gods are these..? What linguists loth
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What mad pursuit..? What struggle to punctuate
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What pips and pixels..? What wild ad hockery
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Seen hes’tations are sweet, but those unseen
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Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pips, play on
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Not to the sensual eye, but, more numen
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Pip of the spirit, wit’s whits, un-alone
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Fair punct, upon the page, thou canst not leave
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Thy dots, nor ever can that page be bare
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Bold Writer, never judge it is amiss
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Though just two untripled—yet, do not grieve
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Thou shan’t fade, though thou knowst not treble bliss
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For ever wilt thou mark, and it be fair
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