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friend poem

burly, dozing humble-bee
desolate and lone
so fallen
glooms of the live-oaks
let a joy keep you
if it
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
truely
at dawn, he said
it was a tall young oysterman
what shall we do now
my son is dead and i am going blind
i am a woman

 



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