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marriage poem

high-born race
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
she heard the children playing in the sun
i do not pray for peace
braided and woven
i know not where
there is an hour of peaceful rest
in your flight
there by the window in the old house
it was a tall young oysterman
out of me unworthy and unknown
with her hair flaying wildly
passing through huddled and ugly walls

 



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