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birthday poem

never in all my life
i stand in the cold gray weather
see, from this counterfeit of him
there were three in the meadow by the brook
my son is dead and i am going blind
who loves the rain
truely
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
there is a country full of wine
there by the window in the old house
i bid them all farewell
had he and i but met
i had a dream and i awoke with it

 



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