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grandmother poem

do the boys and girls still go
beneath the warrior's helm
if i should die, think only this of me
could we but know
the agony of having too much power
before the solemn bronze saint
i saw with open eyes
rocked in the cradle of the deep
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
sleep, gray brother of death
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
i love the old melodious lays

 



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