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family poem

i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
brief on a flying night
up to her chamber window
if the red slayer think he slays
the darkness rolls upward
one sweetly solemn thought
weak-winged is song
splendid and terrible your love
lived by the river-side
the meadow was creeping
skies they were ashen and sober
i saw the clouds among the hills
sleep, gray brother of death
what was it the engines said

 



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