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retirement poem

i expect you
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
there are three ways in which men take
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
hang no wreath
made up of loveliness alone
old wine to drink
who will be naming the wind
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
he came and took me by the hand
i had over-prepared the event
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
which i wish to remark
here falls no light

 



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