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still thirteen years
there by the window in the old house
before the solemn bronze saint
i do not pray for peace
just now
glooms of the live-oaks
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
by the shore, by the sea
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
doubtless i remember still
i had a dream and i awoke with it
of sun nor stars

 



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