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nature poem

glooms of the live-oaks
god
a flying word from here and there
beneath the warrior's helm
little park that i pass through
over the river they beckon to me
splendid and terrible your love
still thirteen years
and still they walked on
wheel me down by the meadow
i stand in the cold gray weather
in all things not spoken of
why then, must we see?
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness

 



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