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what do i owe to you
sing again the song you sung
there is no flock, however watched and tended
in all things not spoken of
brief on a flying night
out of the deep and the dark
i stood
in may
before the solemn bronze saint
do i like it
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
some of the hurts you have cured

 



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