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type of poetry

a look is but a ray
these hearts were woven of human joys and cares
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
some one complained to the master
weak-winged is song
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
the meadow was creeping
i make my shroud, but no one knows
a bird sang
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
why are the things that have no death
if i were very sure

 



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