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I—the trumpet-vine ARBOR / THE THROATS of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open, …
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See! i give myself to you, Beloved! / My words are little jars …
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You are beautiful and faded, / Like an old opera tune …
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Be not angry with me that I bear / Your colors everywhere, …
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The snow whispers about me, / And my wooden clogs …
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In the cloud-gray mornings / I head the herons flying; …
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When i looked into your eyes, / I saw a garden …
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All day long I have been working, / Now I am tired. …
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I walk down the garden paths, / And all the daffodils …
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red slippers in a shop-window; and outside in the street, flaws of gray, windy sleet! / Behind the polished glass the slippers hang in long threads of red, festooning from the ceiling like stalacti…
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When night drifts along the streets of the city, / And sifts down between the uneven roofs, …
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When I go away from you / The world beats dead …
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Tell me, / Was Venus more beautiful …