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brother poem

in and of itself
sweet with fern and rose
what shall we do now
gone are the three, those sisters rare
these be
as a white candle
to clothe the fiery thought
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
which i wish to remark
skies they were ashen and sober
some one complained to the master
there is no flock, however watched and tended
they in the darkness gather and ask
with joy and wonder

 



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