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type of poem

there by the window in the old house
gone are the three, those sisters rare
which i wish to remark
when the hours of day are numbered
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
glooms of the live-oaks
that year
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
give me
when night drifts along the streets of the city
and so it goes
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be

 



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