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type of poetry

how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
day is done
her face is fair and smooth and fine
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
lived by the river-side
do not grieve that it is over
why are the things that have no death
a little peach in the orchard grew
this is the song of youth

 



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