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poem for dad

skies they were ashen and sober
beautiful
they may talk of love in a cottage
lived by the river-side
when the hours of day are numbered
brief on a flying night
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
for these white arms about my neck
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
two rows of cabbages
i cannot always feel his greatness
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
white foam flower, red flame flower

 



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