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love poem

very well, you liberals
with her hair flaying wildly
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
pushing out, struggling vainly
in an old chamber softly lit
in new york harbor
their beautiful hair
i stand in the cold gray weather
death's nobility again
by the rude bridge
a little peach in the orchard grew
this is the ship of pearl
high-born race
along the banks

 



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