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christmas poem

just as my fingers on these keys
gloom
the hypocritic days
could we but know
for these white arms about my neck
dear wife
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
come down at dawn from windless hills
though i am little as all little things
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
old wine to drink
see the tentative
music i heard with you was more than music

 



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