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type of poetry

and still they walked on
the air is like a butterfly
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
in the dark and peace of my final bed
sad are they who know not love
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
some one complained to the master
our pleasant moments fly
since i have felt the sense of death
and breaketh bread no more
the lightning flashed, and lifted
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds

 



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