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poetry poem

love me at last, or if you will not
these hearts were woven of human joys and cares
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
gaily through the fields we danced
risen from the dead
with joy and wonder
who is the runner in the skies
though i am little as all little things
here falls no light
gone are the three, those sisters rare
in your flight
why are the things that have no death
before the solemn bronze saint

 



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