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angel poem

they threw a stone, you threw a stone
skies they were ashen and sober
when i was broke in london
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
let us plant
backward, turn backward
i have heard that a certain princess
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
i am in love with high far-seeing places
softly weeping
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
a mist was driving down
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
let a joy keep you

 



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