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behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
grieve not for the invisible
over the river they beckon to me
beside a stricken field
perhaps it is no matter that you died
the air is like a butterfly
tell me less or tell me more
glass-blower of time
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
sweet splendor
i stood by the open casement
this ancient silver bowl of mine
there is an hour of peaceful rest
she was a beauty in the days

 



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