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autumn poetry

i shake my hair in the wind of morning
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
my son is dead and i am going blind
i love my life, but not too well
happiness
let a joy keep you
in new york harbor
she must go back, she said
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
be in me as the eternal moods
musing, between the sunset and the dark
the darkness
days endeared to every muse

 



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