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thanksgiving poetry

the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
high-born race
a few more windy days
why are the things that have no death
when, full of warm and eager love
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
tell me less or tell me more
in new york harbor
now for a brisk and cheerful fight
leave the lovely words unsaid
shades of night were falling fast
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
look out upon the stars, my love

 



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