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The Crows
The woman who has grown old
And knows desire must die,
Yet turns to love again,
Hears the crow's cry.
She is a stem long hardened,
A weed that no scythe mows.
The heart's laughter will be to her
th crying of the crows,
Who slide in the air with the same voice
Over what yields not, and what yields,
Alike in spring, and there is only bitter
Winter-burning in the fields.
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