Monday, September 9, 2019

UM. [Full Poem] [Temp. 0.853]

UM.
The deed in public eyes of moccasins, --
A summer right has made it, that hay trusted me,
But when Autumn has had vigorous stools, --
The like the minutest gentle friend was not at unknown race,
I may nite near thee, ever see, the verdure weeping;
   Sweet and bowels of the country,
   Along these heelegs for the child,
     The hills when at his nightmare lonely star
     To him and cartless suspect, and then die,
     And the rising world highest hater
     That and her lips were answer warring.
     Betwixt the dewy chamber cry
     Show men who dwell on a strain in those place grown;
       Whilst for unknown in the ghost
       When you have been surprised,
       And means how light were strangers in,
     And the race and birds are smiled
     The door grew little trimding bright,
       Mother with strength so stormful faith.
     Great dancer arrives who knows thy soul,
     Is traveling in the old men die,
     And the sounds her ciroon be a hawk:
     Why drink the tears nor in the mast?
     Steal round us hating smiles, and the infinite stock
     Or claimed the carved few polest battles,
     And this the torture will not see.
     Those saints alone to close the monster rang,
     'Tis all thy happer dream his writhing grace,
     The earthy tree with glow, and Spirit rodes;
     Ah! 'tis not great song with shortendo
     Darkness and all those creation tracts,
     Whilst tortured basking robes fierce wide,
     The sight in mist from Triangle Dullard
     And Scient season, for the days of patriot-redde
     And raven, here and not a lighting eye,
         And for a while when moss is press
      If As is entirely, and later that will wilk,
     Thy watchful strains in artificial vine
     In the infixing winds sweaty--prospect holy.
     Fair spirit to Joss, the pined selves,
      And wanton throng, and rear they pass,
         Master-son; or priest doth lacklike,
     Chart thou of conquest of the pity
     Having the revolution blood of grace,
     Modest harsh rank and revolt, and walls a-talking,
     And on wild sparkling shakes of shame they flow.
     The instinction of the early light
      Rose in bargains of our spices.

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