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friend poem

soft as the bed in the earth
backward, turn backward
up to her chamber window
my son is dead and i am going blind
all quiet along the potomac
in the sphere
our pleasant moments fly
is there anybody there
we were not many
i saw god. do you doubt it?
braided and woven
they may talk of love in a cottage
when the wind works against us in the dark
beneath the warrior's helm

 



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