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sex poem

into the silent land
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
up from the south at break of day
tell me less or tell me more
be in me as the eternal moods
a few more windy days
daughter, thou art come to die
are you awake?
dear wife
winged shadows sweeping by
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
since i have felt the sense of death
the hypocritic days

 



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