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A poem is at most
a conversation in the
dusk
besides the ancient oven, when
they have all gone, and out of doors
the deep wood rustles; yes, a poem

is hardly more than a few words
that one has loved, and change
their place with time, so that
they now become a blot, at most
a hope without a name;

a poem is hardly more
than happiness, a
talk
within the dusk, or all
that has forever gone, and is
no more than silence now.