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death poetry

love me at last, or if you will not
let us express our baser passions
though i am little as all little things
i've won the race
the pale day drowses on the western steep
i have known the silence of the stars and of the sea
i do not pray for peace
if it
before the solemn bronze saint
where shall i find you
splendid and terrible your love
eighty years have passed, and more

 



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