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there are gains for all our losses
thou unrelenting past
why are the things that have no death
just as my fingers on these keys
old wine to drink
the swan existing
though love repine, and reason chafe
the little white prayers
babylon-where i go dreaming
her face is fair and smooth and fine
i am the wind that wavers
the fragrance came
there is a city, builded by no hand

 



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