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thanksgiving poem

what spiteful chance steals unawares
now while my lips are living
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
had he and i but met
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
i saw the first pear
backward, turn backward
night is dark, and the winter winds
i do not pray for peace
see, they return
royal feast was done
through the broad earth's aching breast
i expect you

 



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