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son poem

my mother twines me roses wet with dew
i shall see a star tonight
to come so soon to this imagined dark
glooms of the live-oaks
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
i reside at table mountain
my son is dead and i am going blind
pushing out, struggling vainly
the earth keeps some vibration going
thou unrelenting past
the hypocritic days
some one complained to the master
with the sunset

 



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