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famous poem

i shake my hair in the wind of morning
i stand in the cold gray weather
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
the hypocritic days
what spiteful chance steals unawares
she limps with halting painful pace
night was black and drear
which i wish to remark
i can not tell you now
night is dark, and the winter winds

 



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