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death poem

as it
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
my son is dead and i am going blind
night was black and drear
royal feast was done
this ancient silver bowl of mine
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
i am old and blind
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
little gate was reached at last

 



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