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funeral poem

not from the whole wide world
they in the darkness gather and ask
long ago, in the young moonlight
in an old chamber softly lit
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
lady, your heart has turned to dust
when freedom from her mountain height
desolate and lone
looking beyond
though love repine, and reason chafe
out of me unworthy and unknown
in the sphere

 



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