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angel poem

he's gone
he'd even have his joke
their beautiful hair
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
did you ever hear of
roses and gold
were it not for that singular smell
the body may confine
in their ragged regimentals
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i went up and down the streets
through the broad earth's aching breast
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead

 



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