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concrete poetry

i cannot always feel his greatness
stir
there were three in the meadow by the brook
i am the wind that wavers
day is done
your body's motion is like music
therefore i may not
there are three ways in which men take
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
good woman
see, from this counterfeit of him
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white

 



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