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i miss you poem

with the meek, brown eyes
here falls no light
before the solemn bronze saint
i am dying
those black eyes i once so praised
one by one, like leaves from a tree
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
i love my hour of wind and light
the arches of the red bridge
her face is fair and smooth and fine
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
in his guarded tent

 



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