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i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
there is a country full of wine
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
doubtless i remember still
beautiful, tragical faces
they in the darkness gather and ask
the hypocritic days
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
she must go back, she said
the sun is up

 



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