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death poem

gone are the three, those sisters rare
to clothe the fiery thought
it was a tall young oysterman
some of the hurts you have cured
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
i know not where
when you come tonight
i never knew the earth had so much gold
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
before the solemn bronze saint
roses and gold
truely

 



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