Through throats where many rivers meet, the curlews cry,
Under the conceiving moon, on the high chalk hill,
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Over Sir John's hill,
The hawk on fire hangs still;
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I make this in a warring absence when
Each ancient, stone-necked minute of love's season
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Out of the sighs a little comes,
But not of grief, for I have knocked down that
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It is the sinners' dust-tongued bell claps me to churches
When, with his torch and hourglass, like a sulpher priest,
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How soon the servant sun,
(Sir morrow mark),
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We lying by seasand, watching yellow
And the grave sea, mock who deride
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Never and never, my girl riding far and near
In the land of the hearthstone tales, and spelled asleep,
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Once below a time,
When my pinned-around-the-spirit
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Unluckily for a death
Waiting with phoenix under
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Into her lying down head
His enemies entered be
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Waking alone in a multitude of loves when morning's light
Surprised in the opening of her nightlong eyes
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Why east wind chills and south wind cools
Shall not be known till windwell dries
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The tombstone told when she died.
Her two surnames stopped me still.
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Friend by enemy I call you out.
You with a bad coin in your socket,
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Shall gods be said to thump the clouds
When clouds are cursed by thunder,
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This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
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Myselves
The grievers
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Do you not father me, nor the erected arm
For my tall tower's sake cast in her stone?
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This bread I break was once the oat,
This wine upon a foreign tree
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Here in this spring, stars float along the void;
Here in this ornamental winter
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When I woke, the town spoke.
Birds and clocks and cross bells
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Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
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A saint about to fall,
The stained flats of heaven hit and razed
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Grief thief of time crawls off,
The moon-drawn grave, with the seafaring years,
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'If my head hurt a hair's foot
Pack back the downed bone. If the unpricked ball of my breath
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'Find meat on bones that soon have none,
And drink in the two milked crags,
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The hunchback in the park
A solitary mister
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The seed-at-zero shall not storm
That town of ghosts, the trodden womb,
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I
Half of the fellow father as he doubles
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