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christmas poetry

the rain was over, and the brilliant air
melancholy, blue it was
out of the sparkling sea
there is a city, builded by no hand
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
sweet splendor
were it not for that singular smell
with lips blood red and heart of stone
wheel me down by the meadow
the darkness
over the river they beckon to me
who will be naming the wind

 



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