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narrative poetry

melancholy days have come
if it
world that changes under my hand
skies they were ashen and sober
i despise my friends more than you
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
these hearts were woven of human joys and cares
grieve not for the invisible
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
my mother taught me that every night

 



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