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thanksgiving poetry

glooms of the live-oaks
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
they in the darkness gather and ask
thoughts through my head
a little peach in the orchard grew
just now
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
never in all my life
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
my true love from her pillow rose
i loved a woman
have you not heard
be not false
i do not pray for peace

 



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