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962

Midsummer, was it, when They died—
A full, and perfect time—
The Summer closed upon itself
In Consummated Bloom—

The Corn, her furthest kernel filled
Before the coming Flail—
When These—leaned unto Perfectness—
Through Haze of Burial—

Added: 6 Oct 2002 | Last Read: 29 Aug 2008 4:16 AM | Viewed: 5075 times

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