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romantic poetry

this ancient silver bowl of mine
as i lie roofed in, screened in
so lost
to come so soon to this imagined dark
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
be in me as the eternal moods
why then, must we see?
see i give myself to you
listen to the sounding sea
the mountains they are silent folk
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
she said
who will be naming the wind

 



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