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acrostic poem

could we but know
though love repine, and reason chafe
weak-winged is song
i am dying
once this soft turf
my son is dead and i am going blind
birds against the april wind
stand here by my side
sleep, gray brother of death
within my hand i hold
but alas, just dreams
let us express our baser passions
i have cast the world
very well, you liberals

 



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