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narrative poetry

no prey am i of poor thoughts
this is the song of youth
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
storm
green afternoon serene and bright
the body may confine
there is a city, builded by no hand
daughters of time
do you hear the rain?
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
and breaketh bread no more
i gazed upon the glorious sky
the old songs

 



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