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sleep, gray brother of death
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
the darkness
my soul is a dark ploughed field
lived by the river-side
still thirteen years
and breaketh bread no more
all my love for my sweet
some of the hurts you have cured
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
when freedom from her mountain height
there is a country full of wine

 



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