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happy birthday poem

hang no wreath
from song and dream for ever gone
up from the meadows rich with corn
happiness
softly now the light of day
blossoms of babies
over the river they beckon to me
they ask me where i've been
the dawn was apple-green
glooms of the live-oaks
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
with the meek, brown eyes
i saw god. do you doubt it?

 



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