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free love poetry

if i should die, think only this of me
roses and gold
what do i owe to you
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
under the harvest moon
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the body may confine
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
though i am little as all little things
i have heard them in the night
risen from the dead
gone are the three, those sisters rare

 



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