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autumn poetry

gone are the three, those sisters rare
the snow whispers about me
her face is fair and smooth and fine
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
with the sunset
there were three in the meadow by the brook
lady, your heart has turned to dust
there are gains for all our losses
to what shall a woman liken her beloved
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
sweet with fern and rose
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces

 



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