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Moss dark ruins stark upon a hill
Silhouetted by the sun behind
Outlined all too clear, but of themselves
A flat black mass which meaning will not find.

Shadows flitting from the purple past
Like bumblebees which hum from stem to stem,
Which touch the tattered strings of memory
To play a chord or wake another dream.

A bend upon a river, I am young.
A girl who will not love and I am old.
The valley in the hills to keep me warm,
The loneliness of life to make me cold.

Age is calm acceptance of events,
Youth springing from success and novelty.
While long toothed saddened wizened weariness
Are failures dregs, whose seeds are found in he
Who like me
Begs.

1966

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