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type of poetry

the poets tell
lady, your heart has turned to dust
hang no wreath
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
let us plant
glooms of the live-oaks
white foam flower, red flame flower
the saddest of the year
rose and amber was the sunset on the river
if i were very sure
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
out of the window a sea of green trees
we lay
at dawn, he said

 



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