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father poem

in and of itself
once this soft turf
long ago, in the young moonlight
and how could you dream of meeting
up from the meadows rich with corn
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
brother, i am fire
a flying word from here and there
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
the little white prayers
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
had he and i but met
i do not pray for peace
stern cold man

 



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