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family poetry

against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
better than granite
this is the arsenal
music i heard with you was more than music
passing through huddled and ugly walls
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
all down the years
there is an hour of peaceful rest
under the harvest moon
beneath my window in a city street
god
the child who threw away leaf after leaf

 



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