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autumn poetry

sleep sweetly in your humble graves
moonlight deep and tender
my son is dead and i am going blind
and breaketh bread no more
melancholy days have come
to come so soon to this imagined dark
i had a dream and i awoke with it
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
among the mountains i wandered
why then, must we see?
see the tentative

 



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