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mother poem

once this soft turf
do not turn your head
day is done
i saw him once before
there is a city, builded by no hand
royal feast was done
who is the runner in the skies
high walls and huge
the arches of the red bridge
i said, i have shut my heart
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
now that i have cooled to you
here lies a most beautiful lady
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale

 



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