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funeral poem

arched the flood
the mountains they are silent folk
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
death's nobility again
tell me
a look is but a ray
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
the meadow was creeping
sun and wind and beat of sea
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
her face is fair and smooth and fine
melancholy days have come
their beautiful hair
our pleasant moments fly

 



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