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christmas poetry

in the cloud-gray mornings
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
in the sphere
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
when the hours of day are numbered
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
sweet and strong
burly, dozing humble-bee
i saw god. do you doubt it?
could we but know

 



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