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funeral poem

hang no wreath
days endeared to every muse
for then without
little park that i pass through
glooms of the live-oaks
who is the runner in the skies
out of the sparkling sea
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i cannot always feel his greatness
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
i made a vow once, one only
in new york harbor
the fragrance came

 



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