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poetry for kid

quietly, with reverance, in awe
love me at last, or if you will not
i've won the race
therefore i may not
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
there were three in the meadow by the brook
moonlight deep and tender
gone are the three, those sisters rare
this is the song of youth
if the red slayer think he slays
rising moon has hid the stars
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars

 



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