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type of poem

in an old chamber softly lit
i saw the first pear
do not turn your head
i am old and blind
those black eyes i once so praised
she knows a cheap release
the saddest of the year
the pale day drowses on the western steep
grieve not for the invisible
let a joy keep you
i fill this cup
when a deed is done for freedom
night is dark, and the winter winds

 



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