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by the lake
by 1 edith sitwell (1887-1964)
across the flat and the pastel snow
two people go . . . . 'and do you remember
when last we wandered this shore?' . . . 'ah no!
for it is cold-hearted december.'
'dead, the leaves that like asses's ears hung on the trees
when last we wandered and 2 joy here;
now midas your husband will listen for these
whispers--these tears for joy's bier.'
and as they walk, they seem tall pagodas;
and all the ropes let down from the cloud
ring the hard cold bell-buds upon the trees--codas
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