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friendship poem

if it
in september
why are the things that have no death
with joy and wonder
for truth, for love
who loves the rain
eighty years have passed, and more
to come so soon to this imagined dark
very well, you liberals
by the rude bridge
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
often i think of the beautiful town
let us pity those who are better off than we are


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