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2in the waning light of an August eve
landscapes birds and flowers
he only stayed a minute or two
as they sing of the dews and the sunbeams
he had drawn her in somehow
who had deserted her years ago and had now returned
it was almost as if he had taken possession of her
she exchanged letters with him
a slender spray of wild cherries
the simplicity of the tea-room
the fear of repetition is a constant presence
W.B.Yeats as a messenger and all that
when the birds were whispering to mysterious cadence
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