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death poetry

never in all my life
i stood
when you come tonight
my true love from her pillow rose
a very remarkable history this is
one sweetly solemn thought
gone are the three, those sisters rare
sun and wind and beat of sea
awful truths these be
of sun nor stars
if the red slayer think he slays
the pale day drowses on the western steep
in and of itself
up from the meadows rich with corn

 



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