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concrete poetry

were it not for that singular smell
we were not many
i walk down the garden paths
sweet and strong
in their ragged regimentals
a mile behind
green afternoon serene and bright
before the solemn bronze saint
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
i saw with open eyes

 



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