on the face of the season on my way here
you may compare them
the face of everything
the hazel and white-thorn
sycamore, lime and ash
at York, ripe walnuts
bricks
percussive softness, within
a mile and broke into fine hills and shadow
today it is in the north
clear sunshine but cold
but made fresh shoots
and shall continue the best ever
their person had not betrayed them
betrayal is far greener
with such a year,
and your care is odious,
vile, though not betrayed
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