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son poem

the saddest of the year
for then without
i love the old melodious lays
burly, dozing humble-bee
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
softly weeping
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
who loves the rain
my true love from her pillow rose
she might have known it in the earlier spring
you are clear
i've won the race
they may talk of love in a cottage
for these white arms about my neck

 



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