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short love poem

why are the things that have no death
in the cloud-gray mornings
thoughts through my head
if i were very sure
birds against the april wind
up to her chamber window
never in all my life
who will be naming the wind
master of human destinies am i
there is a city, builded by no hand
the arches of the red bridge
she might have known it in the earlier spring
i am the wind that wavers

 



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