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sympathy poem

a very remarkable history this is
we who stood
by the rude bridge
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
leave the lovely words unsaid
though i am little as all little things
she was a beauty in the days
they ask me where i've been
night is dark, and the winter winds
there are three ways in which men take
awful truths these be
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness


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