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broken heart poem

i saw with open eyes
to clothe the fiery thought
i saw the first pear
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
birds against the april wind
the ancient songs
though i am little as all little things
in mournful numbers
a pen of steel
often is it not so?
i saw him once before
up from the meadows rich with corn

 



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