Forest, dull and dreary,
Mountains black and weary,
I climb, climb, looking,
For you, in the icy snows,
...
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Why do so many your poems end by producing anguish in my heart? Is it their power, their sadness, their imagery, or the protective impulse for you that they engender? Probably all of the above...
to: #444 what a number, what a score! Not a bore, that's 4 sure