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my son is dead and i am going blind
over the river they beckon to me
in halls of sleep you wandered by
come down at dawn from windless hills
let us plant
when freedom from her mountain height
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
they may talk of love in a cottage
the old west, the old time
this is the song of youth
to some the fat gods
death's nobility again
world that changes under my hand

 



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