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christmas poetry

i stand in the cold gray weather
wheel me down by the meadow
days endeared to every muse
see, from this counterfeit of him
there are gains for all our losses
but alas, just dreams
in the cloud-gray mornings
listen
i do not pray for peace
in all things not spoken of
see, they return
death's nobility again
at dawn, he said
i have heard that a certain princess

 



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