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Copywrite by
Nicholas Gordon |
Fifty-eight has fields that now lie
fallow,
In which exuberance is well interred.
Fierce desire roams the windrows still,
Tempered by a sense of the absurd,
Yet resonant with what such wishes hallow.
Even in the winter that will follow,
In harmonies remote though not unheard,
Grace that wordless lies beyond the will,
Happiness well steeped, if rarely stirred,
There is a wellspring lush beside the willow. |