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son poem

three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
afraid no more, i say
the meadow was creeping
before the solemn bronze saint
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
a mile behind
there are gains for all our losses
gaily through the fields we danced
when i go back to earth
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
made up of loveliness alone

 



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