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autumn poetry

escrito en una noche del vuelo
todos se callan a lo largo del potomac
este tazón de fuente de plata antiguo el míos
espléndido y terrible su amor
y pan del breaketh no más
cuando las horas del día se numeran
un poeta, tomando el frenillo de su lengüeta
no puedo sentir siempre su greatness
cuál era él los motores dichos
en septiembre
la pienso espléndido justo

 



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