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acrostic poem

he's gone
at midnight
what shall we do now
daughter, thou art come to die
who will be naming the wind
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i heard the wind all day
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
they may talk of love in a cottage
i said
through the broad earth's aching breast
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
beside a stricken field

 



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