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Poem by Louise Imogen Guiney
What sacramental hurt that brings The terror of the truth of things, Had changed thee? Secret be it yet. ’Twas thine, upon a headland set, To view no isles of man’s delight With lyric foam in rainbow flight, But all a-swing, a-gleam, mid slow uproar, Black sea, and curved uncouth sea-bitten shore.
Louise Imogen Guiney
Louise Imogen Guiney's other poems:
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