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narrative poetry

i burn no incense
often is it not so?
beside a stricken field
in your flight
i am fevered
since, if you stood by my side today
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
sweet splendor
i saw him once before
beneath my window in a city street
i stand in the cold gray weather
have you not heard
into the silent land
under the harvest moon

 



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