love poetry chat

see, from this counterfeit of him
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
there by the window in the old house
beautiful, tragical faces
a mist was driving down
little gate was reached at last
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
up from the meadows rich with corn
the saddest of the year
she might have known it in the earlier spring
in and of itself
for these white arms about my neck
bring me soft song
love has been sung a thousand ways