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death poem

my soul is a dark ploughed field
grieve not for the invisible
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
in an old chamber softly lit
i know what you're going to say
we break the glass whose sacred wine
before the solemn bronze saint
we who stood
could we but know
listen to the sounding sea
so lost
my mother taught me that every night

 



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