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lost love poem

i loathed you
there is a city, builded by no hand
long ago, in the young moonlight
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
i stand in the cold gray weather
risen from the dead
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
gaily through the fields we danced
a mile behind
the poets tell
why then, must we see?
i cannot always feel his greatness
desolate and lone
noises that strive to tear

 



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