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contemporary poetry

eighty years have passed, and more
love me at last, or if you will not
have you not heard
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
high-born race
within my hand i hold
the arches of the red bridge
this ancient silver bowl of mine
calm as that second summer
up and down he goes
why do you always stand there shivering
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
along the banks

 



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