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gothic poetry

and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
sun and wind and beat of sea
sleep, gray brother of death
there is no flock, however watched and tended
the mountains they are silent folk
though i am little as all little things
in his guarded tent
dear wife
last midnight
a mile behind
there are three ways in which men take
i am singing to you
i shall see a star tonight
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges

 



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