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family poetry

a mist was driving down
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i love my hour of wind and light
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
with joy and wonder
just as my fingers on these keys
we break the glass whose sacred wine
high-born race
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
softly weeping
a mile behind
one sweetly solemn thought

 



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