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fall poem

white foam flower, red flame flower
i am dying
it was a tall young oysterman
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
since i have felt the sense of death
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
along a river-side
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
a little peach in the orchard grew
you are beautiful and faded
glass-blower of time
long ago, in the young moonlight
perhaps it is no matter that you died

 



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