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fall poem

all quiet along the potomac
my soul is a dark ploughed field
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
no prey am i of poor thoughts
have we no shame?
though love repine, and reason chafe
a little peach in the orchard grew
to clothe the fiery thought
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies

 



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