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poetry for kid

with the meek, brown eyes
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
the light withdrawn
by the rude bridge
lived by the river-side
a mist was driving down
i am the wind that wavers
the air is full of dawn and spring
glass-blower of time
though i am little as all little things
we lay
why then, must we see?
in an old chamber softly lit
the poets tell

 



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