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best love poems

what spiteful chance steals unawares
the mountains they are silent folk
that year
i do not pray for peace
before the solemn bronze saint
on and on
in an old chamber softly lit
hang no wreath
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
in mournful numbers
the dawn was apple-green
so fallen
the pale day drowses on the western steep
glass-blower of time

 



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