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poem for pastors

in your arms was still delight
i love my hour of wind and light
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
i am dying
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
out of the sparkling sea
we were not many
the dawn was apple-green
through the broad earth's aching breast
when freedom from her mountain height
she must go back, she said
uplifting, as the wind blew
which keeps
a little peach in the orchard grew

 



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