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mom poem

to clothe the fiery thought
some of the hurts you have cured
death's nobility again
the swan existing
though i am little as all little things
under dusky laurel leaf
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
i loved a woman
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
i do not pray for peace
i love my life, but not too well
in an old chamber softly lit
there was never a sound beside the wood but one

 



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