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sad poem

winged shadows sweeping by
long ago, in the young moonlight
why do
the ancient songs
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
now while my lips are living
braided and woven
pharaoh, king of egypt's land
i saw the clouds among the hills
the pale day drowses on the western steep
the poets tell
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
lived by the river-side
within my hand i hold

 



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