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grandmother poem

so lost
royal feast was done
what shall we do now
glooms of the live-oaks
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
i said
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
their beautiful hair
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
some one complained to the master
softly weeping
when i was broke in london
see, from this counterfeit of him

 



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