Ten years without you. For so it happens.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" /> Days make their steady progress, a routine That is merciful and attracts nobody. Already, like a disciplined scholar, I piece fragments together, past conjecture Establishing true sequences of pain; For so it is proper to find value In a bleak skill, as in the thing restored: The long-lost words of choice and valediction. 1968 |
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