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sad death poem

before the solemn bronze saint
in mournful numbers
to clothe the fiery thought
but i cannot read you now
stuff of the moon
if it
in their ragged regimentals
let me be sad
these be
sweet splendor
those black eyes i once so praised
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
music i heard with you was more than music
though i am little as all little things

 



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