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memorial poem

there was a strangeness on your lips
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
i loathed you
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
melancholy days have come
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
though love repine, and reason chafe
in all things not spoken of
softly now the light of day
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
there are three ways in which men take
very well, you liberals
we who stood

 



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