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family poem

in and of itself
my soul is a dark ploughed field
two rows of cabbages
where shall i find you
grieve not for the invisible
beautiful, tragical faces
though love repine, and reason chafe
pushing out, struggling vainly
all my love for my sweet
master of human destinies am i
the saddest of the year
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise

 



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