Frances Cornford quotes

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He put his hand upon my shoulder,
He did not think me strange or older,
I thought it said in every tick:
I am so sick, so sick, so sick:
O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
Missing so much and so much?
O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,
A young Apollo, golden-haired,
Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,
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