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african american poetry

here falls no light
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
there are three ways in which men take
you say you love me
there is a city, builded by no hand
to the passionate lover
there by the window in the old house
softly weeping
a life on the ocean wave
love me at last, or if you will not
the sun is up
in the dark and peace of my final bed
last midnight

 



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