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type of poem

skies they were ashen and sober
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
and so it goes
tell me not
softly now the light of day
days endeared to every muse
but i cannot read you now
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
for truth, for love
look out upon the stars, my love
risen from the dead
sing again the song you sung
i am the wind that wavers
you say you love me

 



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