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Prophecy

 I shall die hidden in a hut
In the middle of an alder wood,
With the back door blind and bolted shut,
And the front door locked for good.
I shall lie folded like a saint, Lapped in a scented linen sheet, On a bedstead striped with bright-blue paint, Narrow and cold and neat.
The midnight will be glassy black Behind the panes, with wind about To set his mouth against a crack And blow the candle out.

Poem by Elinor Wylie
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