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gothic poetry

a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
earth travails
and my name is truthful
he'd even have his joke
she burst fierce wine
we break the glass whose sacred wine
do not grieve that it is over
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
when i returned at sunset

 



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