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very well, you liberals
i go my way complacently
one by one, like leaves from a tree
do not turn your head
there was a strangeness on your lips
braided and woven
though love repine, and reason chafe
splendid and terrible your love
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
she might have known it in the earlier spring
i stand in the cold gray weather
therefore i may not
a flying word from here and there

 



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