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autumn poem

why then, must we see?
he speaks not well
she must go back, she said
they may talk of love in a cottage
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
to clothe the fiery thought
city that is not a city
this ancient silver bowl of mine
her face is fair and smooth and fine
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
love me at last, or if you will not
where shall i find you

 



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