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son poem

how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
i do not pray for peace
no prey am i of poor thoughts
uplifting, as the wind blew
softly now the light of day
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
weak-winged is song
the little white prayers
you are my companion
through the broad earth's aching breast
i stood
the agony of having too much power
thou unrelenting past

 



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