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dark poetry

the meadow was creeping
for truth, for love
she might have known it in the earlier spring
you are beautiful and faded
it tells of good old times
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
who is the runner in the skies
sweet splendor
in all things not spoken of
do not grieve that it is over
my true love from her pillow rose
i went up and down the streets
stuff of the moon

 



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