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modern poetry

from floor to ceiling
their beautiful hair
who loves the rain
awful truths these be
since i have felt the sense of death
like eagles on up high
sad are they who know not love
if i should die, think only this of me
i can not tell you now
the pale day drowses on the western steep
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
the body may confine
royal feast was done

 



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