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prose poetry

my soul is a dark ploughed field
i see all human wits
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
white foam flower, red flame flower
beautiful, tragical faces
the saddest of the year
there is no flock, however watched and tended
this is the song of youth
love me at last, or if you will not
when i was a boy at college
above them all, looking down
we who stood
i know what you're going to say
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be

 



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