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poetry poem

still her gray rocks tower above the sea
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
could we but know
i have to say good-night
i have heard that a certain princess
there by the window in the old house
in your flight
brief on a flying night
stuff of the moon
one sweetly solemn thought
if the red slayer think he slays
what spiteful chance steals unawares

 



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