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autumn poetry

once this soft turf
she must go back, she said
i see all human wits
do i like it
let us pity those who are better off than we are
the darkness rolls upward
beautiful, tragical faces
i know not where
what do i owe to you
glooms of the live-oaks
i saw with open eyes
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges

 



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