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prose poetry

the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
her face is fair and smooth and fine
beautiful
as it
night was black and drear
she limps with halting painful pace
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
be in me as the eternal moods
storm
daughter, thou art come to die
afraid no more, i say
i love my hour of wind and light
when i was a boy at college

 



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