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gothic poetry

a thousand silent years ago
i never knew the earth had so much gold
there are three ways in which men take
this is the arsenal
a mist was driving down
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
lo! 'tis a gala night
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
we break the glass whose sacred wine
of sun nor stars
beside a stricken field
in your arms was still delight

 



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