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my soul is a dark ploughed field
three years ago today
my mother taught me that every night
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
now while my lips are living
birds against the april wind
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
when you come tonight
i have to say good-night
therefore i may not
in mournful numbers
stuff of the moon
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
you are beautiful and faded

 



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