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in the dark and peace of my final bed
perhaps it is no matter that you died
now while my lips are living
there were three in the meadow by the brook
the child who threw away leaf after leaf
there is a city, builded by no hand
musing, between the sunset and the dark
in the sphere
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
there's one that i once loved so much
sleep, gray brother of death

 



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