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in may
world that changes under my hand
when freedom from her mountain height
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
never in all my life
all quiet along the potomac
i go my way complacently
backward, turn backward
beneath my window in a city street
long ago, in the young moonlight
up from the south at break of day
she limps with halting painful pace
birds against the april wind
i saw with open eyes

 



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