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friend poem

lady, your heart has turned to dust
birds against the april wind
little gate was reached at last
from our hidden places
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
what do i owe to you
from floor to ceiling
in mournful numbers
out of me unworthy and unknown
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i stand in the cold gray weather

 



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