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father poem

i can not tell you now
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
when, full of warm and eager love
awful truths these be
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
better than granite
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
glass-blower of time
in your arms was still delight
let a joy keep you
in and of itself
hang no wreath

 



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