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father poem

a mile behind
out of the deep and the dark
into the silent land
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
perhaps it is no matter that you died
some one complained to the master
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
i said, i have shut my heart
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
in the cloud-gray mornings
though i am little as all little things
just now
there's one that i once loved so much


 



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