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concrete poetry

there is an hour of peaceful rest
arched the flood
grieve not for the invisible
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
to clothe the fiery thought
blossoms of babies
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
one sweetly solemn thought
which keeps
splendid and terrible your love
my son is dead and i am going blind
weak-winged is song
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces

 



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