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i miss you poem

when freedom from her mountain height
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
glooms of the live-oaks
i cannot always feel his greatness
stay no more
there are gains for all our losses
up from the meadows rich with corn
tell me
not from the whole wide world
who loves the rain
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
gone before us
leave the lovely words unsaid

 



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