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All poems: copyright by
Nicholas Gordon
Free scrapbook poems
permission to use
provided by the author. |
Forty-nine is certain of the
evening.
On her the passing of the days depends.
Remote from the requirements of winning,
To her there is a point to means and ends;
Yet slanting light a melancholy sends.
No passion is more precious than her
yearning,
Infinite far more than it intends;
Nor can love, though with compassion burning,
Ease the pain that with her pleasure blends. |
