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Thistle-Down

Rating: 2.8

Beyond a ridge of pine with russet tips
The west lifts to the sun her longing lips,

Her blushes stain with gold and garnet dye
The shore, the river and the wide far sky;

Like floods of wine the waters filter through
The reeds that brush our indolent canoe.

I beach the bow where sands in shadows lie;

You hold my hand a space, then speak good-bye.
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7/28/2021 11:00:42 PM # 1.0.0.666