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son poem

a mile behind
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
bring me soft song
the dawn was apple-green
up from the meadows rich with corn
when, full of warm and eager love
one sweetly solemn thought
in and of itself
three years ago today
in the cloud-gray mornings
awful truths these be

 



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