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Eclipse of the Moon

The organ plays in a thousand arching churches
a thousand sons against their mothers' knees
leaning;
sun gliding the paths wet with glittering snares;
the unfaithful rise from their beds to a rainy
morning.
Death walks the long paths. Under the leaves he is
hiding
from the children, only drawing an explicit trace
down their spines, and drying the veins in the
garden
with sunlight that buries the dew in chords of
silence.
Let us run from this richness, death and children
and rains
breeding, decaying: green pollen and pale children.
Somewhere above the organ lone figures are shearing
the branches of trees with neat and darkening
direction.
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The danger of feeling is in this, that
too terrible for flesh, it may remember
some slight kinship with divinity, and ever
after stick with that, and all the note
of a song has to undo's harder. In
pity and fear love finds its birth, and from
terror and pity love flies like a god come
into its own, still being where it has been.
The danger of feeling's flesh, all else immortal,
calm, self-contained and self-renewing, ever
the same whomever yet may now endeavor
to tell what soul it lives beyond body's recall.
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Brook and Stone
Last year's leaves
on the careless, stoical trees.
Days not yet out
of the tunnel of winter.
I cross the brook
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