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my soul is a dark ploughed field
it was a tall young oysterman
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
a very remarkable history this is
star-dust and vaporous light
do not grieve that it is over
hang no wreath
i am old and blind
that year
leave the lovely words unsaid
a storm is riding on the tide
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
as it

 



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