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acrostic poem

and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
they in the darkness gather and ask
thou unrelenting past
tell me
glass-blower of time
a look is but a ray
this is the song of youth
the old songs
i see all human wits
and how could you dream of meeting
melancholy, blue it was
often is it not so?
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree

 



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