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christmas poems

her face is fair and smooth and fine
in may
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
since i have felt the sense of death
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
some of the hurts you have cured
with lips blood red and heart of stone
the saddest of the year
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
long ago, in the young moonlight
he speaks not well
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
i think it just splendid
there were three in the meadow by the brook

 



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