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romantic poetry

the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
come down at dawn from windless hills
in all things not spoken of
there were three in the meadow by the brook
little park that i pass through
the air is like a butterfly
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
i love the old melodious lays
out of me unworthy and unknown
i am in love with high far-seeing places
though i am little as all little things

 



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