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brother poem

when night drifts along the streets of the city
here falls no light
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
lo! 'tis a gala night
afraid no more, i say
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
from floor to ceiling
her face is fair and smooth and fine
in mournful numbers
no prey am i of poor thoughts
out of the deep and the dark
you are beautiful and faded

 



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