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type of poem

the meadow was creeping
i stand in the cold gray weather
i can not tell you now
in their ragged regimentals
noises that strive to tear
up to her chamber window
since, if you stood by my side today
what spiteful chance steals unawares
in september
i have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
the dawn was apple-green
lo! 'tis a gala night
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred

 



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