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prose poetry

it was the autumn of the year
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
melancholy, blue it was
afraid no more, i say
why are the things that have no death
i love to steal awhile away
i am the wind that wavers
a little peach in the orchard grew
all quiet along the potomac
through the broad earth's aching breast
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray

 



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