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when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
let us pity those who are better off than we are
see, they return
which i wish to remark
the dawn was apple-green
a little peach in the orchard grew
still thirteen years
white foam flower, red flame flower
in mournful numbers
i cannot always feel his greatness
once this soft turf
i saw the first pear
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me

 



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