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Stanley Kunitz

There was a stir of music,Mixed with flowers, in her blood;A swift impulsive balm From obscure roots;Gold bees of clinging lightSwarmed in her brow. Her throat is full of songs,She hums, she is sensible of wingsGrowing on her heart. She is a tree in springTrembling with the hope of leaves,Of which the leaves are tongues.… Continue reading Stanley Kunitz

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