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nature poem

little gate was reached at last
beautiful, tragical faces
i do not pray for peace
let us pity those who are better off than we are
dark-eyed
listen
perhaps
i despise my friends more than you
give me
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
though love repine, and reason chafe
let a joy keep you
see, from this counterfeit of him

 



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