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gothic poetry

to clothe the fiery thought
the shadows of the ships
who will be naming the wind
desolate and lone
sweet and strong
glooms of the live-oaks
this is the arsenal
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i am singing to you
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
and breaketh bread no more
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead

 



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