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poetry poem

i shake my hair in the wind of morning
our pleasant moments fly
thou unrelenting past
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
in september
i've won the race
glooms of the live-oaks
sun and wind and beat of sea
there was a time in former years
the air is full of dawn and spring
out of the deep and the dark
see the tentative
though i am little as all little things

 



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