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math poem

it tells of good old times
birds against the april wind
could we but know
brother, i am fire
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
i can not tell you now
soft as the bed in the earth
tripping up, falling down
i stood
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
lo! 'tis a gala night
your body's motion is like music
up from the meadows rich with corn

 



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