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autumn poem

perhaps it is no matter that you died
to clothe the fiery thought
at dawn, he said
though love repine, and reason chafe
made up of loveliness alone
i stood by the open casement
sad are they who know not love
we break the glass whose sacred wine
beneath the warrior's helm
the old west, the old time
hang no wreath
she said
let me move slowly through the street

 



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