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contemporary poetry

to clothe the fiery thought
i am the wind that wavers
under the harvest moon
doubtless i remember still
tell me not
the meadow was creeping
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
a flying word from here and there
gone are the three, those sisters rare
a storm is riding on the tide
by the rude bridge
i am dying
night was black and drear

 



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