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type of poem

i shake my hair in the wind of morning
what spiteful chance steals unawares
if i were very sure
were it not for that singular smell
out of the window a sea of green trees
days endeared to every muse
now that i have cooled to you
one sweetly solemn thought
blossoms of babies
therefore i may not
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones

 



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