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child poetry

let us plant
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
there are three ways in which men take
a few more windy days
i am a woman
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
night was black and drear
listen
very well, you liberals
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
high-born race
to come so soon to this imagined dark
over the river they beckon to me
which i wish to remark

 



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