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gothic poetry

skies they were ashen and sober
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
a mile behind
and still they walked on
i went up and down the streets
when freedom from her mountain height
often i think of the beautiful town
to be able to see every side of every question
who will be naming the wind
a few more windy days
sun and wind and beat of sea
little gate was reached at last
there by the window in the old house
i see all human wits

 



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