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 8. her at play Burst oregano between the toes splints her And sleep, lip-antic, in reach enfolds her. An undeterred widow’s grief-grey bout Like tall avenues of trees in storm: the fallen pout. Time admires her hair blown high forswears (Lame roan to thirst and prance and bray), mares Hobble in the green by hazelnuts detoured As from vines do fall the whorlèd gourd. Thinned out, the sprouted grain runs in the mill. Tumbling she still may dance the yearly reel Giggle at their jokes and strut them in the fields. Drawl they, Well, tow’rd faintin’ baths it’s numbin’ her. Shudders she, awakened fireincense her bitter mirror. ...

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