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poetry in motion

against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
just as my fingers on these keys
under a spreading chestnut tree
i am fevered
glooms of the live-oaks
she burst fierce wine
who will be naming the wind
perhaps it is no matter that you died
tell me not
are you awake?
never in all my life
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
a look is but a ray

 



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