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autumn poetry

skies they were ashen and sober
there were three in the meadow by the brook
she said
i am old and blind
when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
who is the runner in the skies
come down at dawn from windless hills
when i was a boy at college
desolate and lone
there is no flock, however watched and tended
she knows a cheap release
brief on a flying night
lo! 'tis a gala night

 



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