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teenage love poem

you are clear
this is the song of youth
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
some one complained to the master
i know not where
i stand in the cold gray weather
when freedom from her mountain height
once this soft turf
moonlight deep and tender
there by the window in the old house
with the meek, brown eyes
i had over-prepared the event
world that changes under my hand

 



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