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thanksgiving poetry

when freedom from her mountain height
of sun nor stars
there are three ways in which men take
melancholy days have come
over the river they beckon to me
all quiet along the potomac
i am dying
when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
with the sunset
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
the sky
death's nobility again
we were not many
the old songs

 



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