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More about Sam Brenton»Excerpt
Ache-mist of dawn. The so old pellucid air
in old terrain compounding, lit, was now shorn
of old miracles, is born
oh-sad today, and everywhere,
though mad, for it mad. The storm disturbs
upon the sheet what makes us laugh, perturbs.
Between the sheets are torn
the ordinary we. What made us love is air,
is thundered birds, is killing care.