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modern poetry

daughters of time
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
all quiet along the potomac
come down at dawn from windless hills
eighty years have passed, and more
i had a dream and i awoke with it
the mountains they are silent folk
we who stood
a look is but a ray
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst

 



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