PoemsThose boughs stay green from which began While constant in baptismal black, They died in hopes of early rise. Through ninety winters, buried deep This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 25 September 2006, on page 72 Copyright © 2012 The New Criterion | www.newcriterion.com http://www.newcriterion.com/articles.cfm/finding-tintype-2459
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