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narrative poetry

but i cannot read you now
the ships are lying in the bay
soft as the bed in the earth
there are gains for all our losses
i saw with open eyes
i have to say good-night
if i should die, think only this of me
we lay
i am dying
before the solemn bronze saint
through the broad earth's aching breast
from song and dream for ever gone
love me at last, or if you will not

 



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