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poetry for kid

before the solemn bronze saint
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
up from the meadows rich with corn
a storm is riding on the tide
in mournful numbers
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
see i give myself to you
if it
under a spreading chestnut tree
under the harvest moon
i said
be not false
old wine to drink
a very remarkable history this is

 



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