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like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
it was the autumn of the year
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
the poets tell
there by the window in the old house
over the river they beckon to me
once this soft turf
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
there is no flock, however watched and tended
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
their beautiful hair
i said

 



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