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teen poem

very well, you liberals
calm as that second summer
often is it not so?
along the banks
i make my shroud, but no one knows
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
eighty years have passed, and more
but alas, just dreams
as i lie roofed in, screened in
sweet with fern and rose
do the boys and girls still go
out of the deep and the dark
i am old and blind
i am the wind that wavers

 



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