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famous poem

why are the things that have no death
though love repine, and reason chafe
there is a city, builded by no hand
i have to say good-night
sweet splendor
i make my shroud, but no one knows
no prey am i of poor thoughts
there is an hour of peaceful rest
i am a woman
i love to steal awhile away
perhaps
the pale day drowses on the western steep
wrap the earth in cloudy weather

 



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