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mother poem

before the solemn bronze saint
over the river they beckon to me
i see all human wits
full of tears
the hypocritic days
i cannot always feel his greatness
we were not many
doubtless i remember still
hang no wreath
this is the ship of pearl
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
there was never a sound beside the wood but one

 



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