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love poetry

i burn no incense
through the broad earth's aching breast
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
glass-blower of time
at dawn, he said
when i returned at sunset
doubtless i remember still
the mountains they are silent folk
with joy and wonder
in the sphere
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
before the solemn bronze saint

 



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