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narrative poetry

there is a city, builded by no hand
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
in your flight
the ships are lying in the bay
why are the things that have no death
rocked in the cradle of the deep
afraid no more, i say
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
hang no wreath
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
now that i have cooled to you
the light withdrawn
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
dear wife

 



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