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father poem

there is no flock, however watched and tended
beneath the warrior's helm
lady, your heart has turned to dust
there by the window in the old house
i loathed you
i loved a woman
when i was broke in london
but i cannot read you now
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
that strange companion came on shuffling feet
since, if you stood by my side today
up from the meadows rich with corn
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
gaily through the fields we danced

 



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