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christmas poem

there is an hour of peaceful rest
there by the window in the old house
stir
world that changes under my hand
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
with the sunset
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
beside a stricken field
grieve not for the invisible
we break the glass whose sacred wine
there is no escape by the river
we were not many
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness

 



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