the hills
like poets put on
purple thought against
the
 
magnificent clamor of
                                    day
tortured
in gold,which presently
 
crumpled
collapses
exhaling a red soul into the dark
 
so
duneyed master
enter
the sweet gates
 
                               of my heart and
take
the
rose,
 
which perfect
is
With killing hands

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