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footprint poem

how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
beside a stricken field
in mournful numbers
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
up from the south at break of day
lo! 'tis a gala night
days endeared to every muse
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
a life on the ocean wave
i had over-prepared the event
now while my lips are living

 



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