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sad death poem

against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
doubtless i remember still
we lay
see the tentative
high-born race
the mountains they are silent folk
since, if you stood by my side today
why do you always stand there shivering
a bird sang
you say you love me
under the harvest moon
tell me less or tell me more
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways

 



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