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i made a vow once, one only
of sun nor stars
over the river they beckon to me
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
along the banks
what do i owe to you
doubtless i remember still
old wine to drink
a bird sang
darkest, strangest mystery
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred

 



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