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writing poetry

glooms of the live-oaks
just now
still thirteen years
the poets tell
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
she burst fierce wine
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
gaily through the fields we danced
there is an hour of peaceful rest
the air is full of dawn and spring
once this soft turf
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
and so it goes
this is the ship of pearl

 



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