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thanksgiving poem

there is a city, builded by no hand
this is the arsenal
when you come tonight
this is the song of youth
the hypocritic days
a bird sang
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
it was the autumn of the year
friend, whose smile has come to be
it tells of good old times
i have to say good-night
old wine to drink
last midnight

 



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