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good bye poem

burly, dozing humble-bee
my mother taught me that every night
like eagles on up high
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
grieve not for the invisible
this ancient silver bowl of mine
a storm is riding on the tide
the darkness rolls upward
eighty years have passed, and more
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
there was a time in former years
see, from this counterfeit of him

 



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