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Those brown eyes, so finely framed
With brow and lash of deepest black
Have stopped me quick and brought me back
To where I had late so clearly aimed.
Wisteria woke me this morning,
And there was all June in the garden;
I felt them, early, warning
Lest I miss any part of the day.
We Who Would Be Poets
We who would be poets write for love.
Just as every other living being
Sifts through vast and complex fragments of
Infinity, so near, yet vaguely fleeing,
The Bitterest Pill
I knew in my heart I had lost you.
Scarcely a word was left to say.
Through the leaden silence I also knew
The distress you felt on slipping away.
Round my chamber window circles a honeysuckle vine.
Petals and twiglets of intricate design.
Scent of some nectar mixed very fine.
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Long years of loving you, dear one,
Have focused misted visions of light,
Elusive loveliness and spun
Them close and clear within my sight.

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