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death poem

do not turn your head
sun stepped down from his golden throne
awful truths these be
simplicity
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
her face is fair and smooth and fine
by the rude bridge
a little peach in the orchard grew
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i have to say good-night
there was a time in former years
skies they were ashen and sober
melancholy days have come
as it

 



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