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gothic poetry

passing through huddled and ugly walls
lady, your heart has turned to dust
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
the air is like a butterfly
where shall i find you
awful truths these be
in the cloud-gray mornings
there by the window in the old house
by the rude bridge

 



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