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birthday poetry

do not grieve that it is over
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
night was black and drear
she burst fierce wine
the pale day drowses on the western steep
i walk down the garden paths
let me be sad
i had a dream and i awoke with it
she was a beauty in the days

 



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