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grandma poem

there was never a sound beside the wood but one
be not false
all my love for my sweet
the old songs
with the meek, brown eyes
which i wish to remark
for then without
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
beautiful, tragical faces
she might have known it in the earlier spring
the meadow was creeping
a thousand silent years ago

 



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