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epic poetry

the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
daughter, thou art come to die
see the tentative
a few more windy days
since i have felt the sense of death
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
have we no shame?
and breaketh bread no more
beautiful, tragical faces
have you not heard
i was a goddess ere the marble found me
be in me as the eternal moods

 



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