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mother poem

a very remarkable history this is
now while my lips are living
if i were very sure
the ancient songs
city that is not a city
high-born race
it was a tall young oysterman
why then, must we see?
pushing out, struggling vainly
splendid and terrible your love
she heard the children playing in the sun
have we no shame?
in mournful numbers
glooms of the live-oaks

 



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