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elements of poetry

perhaps
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
since i have felt the sense of death
the poets tell
just now
with her hair flaying wildly
i stand in the cold gray weather
there were three in the meadow by the brook
be in me as the eternal moods
i shall see a star tonight
for then without
arched the flood
he speaks not well
there's one that i once loved so much

 



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