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angel poem

once this soft turf
the ships are lying in the bay
the dawn was apple-green
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
there is a city, builded by no hand
up from the south at break of day
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
the mountains they are silent folk
they ask me where i've been
music i heard with you was more than music
out of the deep and the dark
softly weeping

 



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