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narrative poetry

this is the arsenal
melancholy days have come
love me at last, or if you will not
day is done
in the sphere
our pleasant moments fly
he speaks not well
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
the hypocritic days
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
she heard the children playing in the sun
the body may confine

 



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