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marriage poem

up from the meadows rich with corn
i do not pray for peace
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the swan existing
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i am in love with high far-seeing places
what spiteful chance steals unawares
in new york harbor
their beautiful hair
very well, you liberals
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought

 



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