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mother poem

her face is fair and smooth and fine
up to her chamber window
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
up from the south at break of day
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
they ask me where i've been
burly, dozing humble-bee
to come so soon to this imagined dark
my soul is a dark ploughed field
i made a vow once, one only
let me move slowly through the street

 



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