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child poem

a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
afraid no more, i say
in your arms was still delight
glooms of the live-oaks
be not false
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
i have heard them in the night
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
i expect you
this is the arsenal
i love my hour of wind and light
sun and wind and beat of sea

 



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