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lyric poetry

a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
my son is dead and i am going blind
there is an hour of peaceful rest
winged shadows sweeping by
what shall we do now
royal feast was done
thou unrelenting past
now while my lips are living
a mist was driving down
over the river they beckon to me
out of the sparkling sea

 



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