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Silver will lie where she lies
sun-out, whatever turning the world does,
longeared in her ashen, earless,
indifferent to sores and greengage colic,
where oats need not
bleached by crystals of her trembling time:
beyond all brunt of seasons, blind
forever to all blinds,
brooks still she may wraith over broken
fields after winter
or roll in the rye-green fields:
old mule, no defense but a mule’s against
flat-toothed, sold to a stranger, shot by a
not my hand she nuzzled the seasoning-salt from.
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