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halloween poem

see i give myself to you
under a spreading chestnut tree
stern cold man
i cannot always feel his greatness
though i am little as all little things
i go my way complacently
beneath the warrior's helm
in the cloud-gray mornings
who is the runner in the skies
there are gains for all our losses
come down at dawn from windless hills
our pleasant moments fly
burly, dozing humble-bee

 



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