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death poem

we break the glass whose sacred wine
her face is fair and smooth and fine
not from the whole wide world
if the red slayer think he slays
this ancient silver bowl of mine
little gate was reached at last
i said
he came and took me by the hand
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
high walls and huge
it was many and many a year ago
some one complained to the master

 



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