When I pass thy door at night poetry

34

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In the strange destiny of men
I must confess to be lost
Or having gone astray
To have gained little in action

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Accomplished little with art
But loved the silver songs
Of guess and soul’s weight
With human flight, I have loved

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Gone wrong, chided, sworn
What a lover Sappho was
In my merry mind, the indignity
Of poverty, the distance of loneliness

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I lived lazy hours and soft summers
With little to show, strange and far
Until my heart stopped for
Wild, keen, tender trembling

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Making magic music in the dark
The life of a poet, that was my lover
In the blue foothills of faint and dimming dreams.

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