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elements of poetry

in the cloud-gray mornings
eighty years have passed, and more
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
my true love from her pillow rose
thou unrelenting past
blossoms of babies
of sun nor stars
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
i expect you

 



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