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anniversary poetry

it was the autumn of the year
i walk down the garden paths
i loathed you
i think it just splendid
hang no wreath
still thirteen years
i love my hour of wind and light
in mournful numbers
with joy and wonder
in your arms was still delight
thou unrelenting past
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
if the red slayer think he slays

 



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