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my son is dead and i am going blind
the poets tell
among the mountains i wandered
these hearts were woven of human joys and cares
i make my shroud, but no one knows
a life on the ocean wave
city that is not a city
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
had he and i but met
for these white arms about my neck
night is dark, and the winter winds

 



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